


Book I: The Spark of Life

by emmbrancsxx0, mushroomtale



Series: The Change Trilogy [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, POV Arthur, POV Gwen, POV Lancelot, POV Merlin, POV Mordred, POV Morgana, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Character Death, also i am HIGHLY american, also might be a good idea to brush up on, anyway, anyway i'm asking you to trust me for part 1 of this, but i want to be very clear that this is a merthur fic, but when is he ever having a great time in my fics?, just trust me, merlin isn't having a great time, not really it's for like 3 seconds but i feel i should put it so people don't yell at me, s3e12 and s3e13, so if you want arthur and gwen to ultimate end up together, so please excuse any wandering z's, the change trilogy, there's a little bit of arthur/gwen in here and y'all will probably get mad at arthur for a second, this is not the fic you're looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 152,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale
Summary: Merlin has spent thousands of years preparing for Arthur to rise again. With the United Kingdom divided after a world war and mysterious killings happening in London, it seems the time has finally come. But Arthur does not rise alone.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

_Two Years and Six Months Later._

Merlin gasped awake. The bed, frame and mattress and all, that had been hovering in the air as he dreamed crashed down with a thud.

Arthur jolted, instantly looking ready to defend even in his semi-conscious state. If it hadn’t been for his sudden rush of adrenaline quickly fading, he would have unsheathed his sword that hung from the side of the bed frame.

“Sorry,” Merlin panted out as he tried to catch his breath. He rubbed at his eyes, scratching out the remaining images from the nightmare. He sat up before the memory of it could weave its way into the cross-stitch of his pillow.

Next to him, Arthur settled with a breath. “What was it?” He sounded groggy, and Merlin felt guilty for waking him up. He didn’t mean to. He’d taken a pill before bed, as he did every night, to ensure a heavy, dreamless sleep. But even that wasn’t a guarantee. Some nights were still full on tossing and turning.

Merlin preferred those to the nights he dreamed, always full of the thin and spidery arms of darkness reaching out to throttle him. At least, on sleepless nights, he would content himself with watching Arthur’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. And Merlin was happy in the knowledge that it was not, in fact, a dream.

Now that Merlin’s heart wasn’t thundering against his ribs, he found the dream had slipped away from him. He didn’t fight to retrieve it, but his skin crawled with the knowledge that it was still within him, hidden and buried. The memory of it felt like a forgotten word right on the tip of one’s tongue. The feeling was there, the connotation, but not the thing itself. 

“Don’t remember.”

He ran his hand through his hair to stop himself from trembling.

He looked across the room, past the antique dresser, the dusty writers’ desk, and the rocking chair in the corner (all pieces that had been in the flat when he moved in), to the windows across the room. There were seven windows, long and narrow, along the outer wall of the flat.

Their curtains were always drawn, even in the day. That was because Merlin couldn’t bear to look out the window, to see the world outside when he didn’t absolutely have to. The skies were always gray this month, like the heavens were about to open up and cast down a flood that would make Noah’s storm look like a spring shower. The overcast wasn’t from clouds. Once a year in late summer, the remnants of ash still trapped in the atmosphere settled over Britain for weeks until finally moving on with the global winds.

During the day, the weak light of the sun managed to haze through the ash and glow between the cracks of the curtains. No such thing was happening now. It was still dark out, and nighttime was worse than the day.

Fires blazed throughout the nights. Buildings would fall to rubble, and the thing that started the fire would only sometimes be an accident. If those flames played substitute for the sun, then the small rubbish bin fires lit for warmth were stars, scattered about the emptiness where life huddled to escape the cold vacancy.

It was a lot warmer in the flat, even though the heat was temporarily broken, as it often was. Merlin kept promising he would fix it, but he kept putting it off. When the heat was broken, they had to huddle in close beneath the blankets. One of them would press his chest against the other’s spine and shroud the other in his arms. Merlin loved the close proximity when they slept.

When he slept with Arthur.

Arthur placed his solid hand between Merlin’s shoulder blades and sprawled out his fingers. His skin was warm through the fabric of Merlin’s t-shirt, and Merlin felt the press of the hard metal from Arthur’s rings. The touch made Merlin shiver at first contact, but he quickly settled into it. “Then, forget it. Good riddance.”

Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, watching the ways the shadows played on his face. His eyes were shimmering in the darkness. Merlin drew his legs beneath him to sit cross-legged and nodded.

On the bedside table next to Arthur, the digital clock read _16:07_ , which meant it was actually a little after four-thirty in the morning. The clock was busted beyond repair, but it wasn’t worth buying a new one; and he wasn’t sure he could find one in the shops if he wanted to. Time was literally money these days, money that could be used for food, so Merlin didn’t mind doing a little maths to figure out the time.

“Think of something else. Something good,” Arthur suggested, as he did every time Merlin woke up from a nightmare. Well, not _every_ time. Usually, Arthur wasn’t that patient, but he was trying to be. Merlin was grateful. “Tell me something. A secret.”

Merlin looked away from Arthur, from his bright blue eyes and the golden curls on his bare chest, both still shadowed by the gloom. He scanned the room in consideration. It was spacious, because it hadn’t originally been intended as a bedroom. Their flat was in an old factory in London, but Merlin didn’t know what had once been manufactured in it. It had been refurbished as flats, which was the trendy thing to do once upon a time, until it was eventually abandoned again when the economy tanked. 

The building was sturdy. The floors and ceiling rafters were made of heavy wooden planks; and the walls, full of graffitied profanities and carved lovers initials and a dried blood stain that wouldn’t come out from where someone offed themselves, was made of plaster instead of drywall.

Merlin used magic to keep the electricity humming, the water running, and every other amenity working. When he first moved in, he picked a flat on the fifth floor. He didn’t know why he’d chosen that one—maybe because the others were filled with pictures of smiling families, with children’s toys, with lives forgotten; or they were filled with dead animals that Merlin cleared away but couldn’t forget, with dust, with vermin.

An elderly couple had lived in the flat Merlin had chosen. He decidedly never stopped to wonder what became of them. They were probably dead, but in their photographs they had looked so happy in the life they’d built together. He removed all their clothes and personal affects before he settled in. He kept everything else—the kitchen appliances, the furniture, some novels, the assorted things necessary to living. 

After moving in, Merlin casted enchantments, hung charms and talismans, and carved runes into the brick so that people would walk past the factory without really noticing it. He didn’t want any squatters apart from himself. He had the whole building. Fifteen hundred square meters, six floors, and hundreds of rooms to be completely alone in. 

The flat had one bedroom, which Merlin and Arthur now shared. Merlin had slept on the sofa in the living area for the first six months after Arthur’s return, having given up the bed for Arthur. He’d considered sleeping in the flat across the hall, where he hid blankets and emergency provisions, but could never bring himself to be that far away from Arthur. Such a thing wasn’t a problem anymore. 

Beyond the bedroom, there was a fitted kitchen and a wide-open space that served as a living area. In it was a sofa that dipped whenever someone sat in it, two threadbare armchairs, a coffee table, and a television that only ran news bulletins in the evening.

Merlin shuffled, resting his bony elbows on his knees and huddling in on himself. “Like what?” he asked, unable to find a good memory.

Arthur shrugged his shoulder. “I’m sure there must be _something_ from all that time, Merlin. Here, I’ll go first. When I was seven, I snuck out of the castle to live in the woods because I thought I wanted to be a bandit instead of a prince.”

Merlin imagined it: young Arthur all alone in the dark wood, no food or blankets, no shelter or camaraderie. It made him laugh.

“That was my father’s reaction when I returned home the next morning, sopping wet from the rainstorm,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes at the memory of a silly youth. “I learned my lesson.” His eyes flickered around the dim room, like a lesson learned only meant he was that much more aware of how abysmal the world around him was now.

Merlin cupped his palm to Arthur’s jaw and guided his gaze to his. Things weren’t so bad as long as they were together.

“Your turn,” Arthur said when Merlin released him.

Merlin pursed his lips to the side and skewed his eyes to the ceiling, twenty-feet high with exposed rafters and piping. Arthur sometimes joked that elephants used to be manufactured in the factory. 

“Alright,” he said. “When I was a kid, I used to think it wasn’t supposed to rain on Sundays.”

Arthur blinked at him. “Merlin.”

“What?”

“You have over a thousand years to choose from, and you pick something from when you were a child?”

“It’s the simple things.”

Merlin did suppose it was a little absurd, but he didn’t like to think about his time after—or was it before? or in between?—Arthur. Every day had felt like sinking deeper into the ocean, and the day Arthur came back was like breaking the water’s surface . . .

“Hey,” Arthur said softly but urgently. “Don’t start. It’s not going to be one of _those_ days, Merlin. I won’t allow it, so don’t give me that look.”

Merlin rattled his head, trying to shake the cobwebs from his thoughts. He was sure it was no use. He must have been staring at Arthur— _through_ Arthur, whatever he did when he got like that—for a few long seconds.

“I’m not giving you a look,” he insisted, but Arthur wasn’t hearing it.

“Yes, you are. Look—,” he sat up and gently touched his forehead to Merlin’s. “I’m here.”

Sometimes Merlin didn’t believe it. But he could feel Arthur’s skin pressed to his. He knew it was real because it wasn’t just pressure. Their breath mixed in the space between them. As Arthur’s expression changed, Merlin felt the miniscule movements. He was real.

Merlin closed his eyes, savouring the moment. When they swept open again, he nodded against Arthur. “I know,” he assured with a nod and a low-wattage but genuine smile.

Something crackled into the life. It was a walkie-talkie on Merlin’s nightstand. On the line, the tinny voice of a man with an American accent said, “Wallace to Ambrosius, over.”

They separated and Merlin eyed the walkie hatefully before turning his eyes back to Arthur and groaning. Arthur gave him a shrug like there was nothing he could do about it.

Merlin stretched towards the comm.

“I’m here. What is it, Wallace?” he said into the mouthpiece while holding down the button. He always forgot to say _over_.

“Didn’t wake you, did I? Over,” came Wallace’s response, and Merlin could hear the laughter in his voice.

“No. What is it?”

“We got another one. Gonna need you. Over.”

Merlin looked over his shoulder. Arthur seemed ready to go at a moment’s notice.

He pressed down on the button again.

“What’s the address?”

 

///

 

The crime scene was across town in Shadwell, which meant it was easier to take the motorbike. Arthur simultaneously loved and hated the thing. At first, he adamantly wanted nothing to do with it, until Merlin had coaxed him by promising, “It’s just like a horse.” 

It was nothing like a horse. It was must faster, and louder. And much more thrilling. The force of the wind when the early-nineties Bonneville was in motion made Arthur feel like he was flying. The vibrations roaring off the motor and flowing through him like blood reminded him just how very alive he was, when he should have been dead. He _had_ been dead. 

No, riding a motorbike was absolutely nothing like riding a horse. It was more like riding a dragon.

Merlin drove the bike around a corner. He always took them too quickly, so that the bike tipped to the side like it might topple them over onto the asphalt. It seemed, every time he did it, the angle got lower. He was probably doing it on purpose because, behind him, Arthur would instinctually tightened his grip around Merlin’s waist.

It probably wasn’t the safest way to get around town, especially because the roads were a maze of scattered potholes that blew off tyres like landmines, cracked with jagged lines, and overgrown with weeds as nature tried to regain the city. Merlin did have a car, though Arthur doubted it was any safer than the motorbike.

It was an obnoxiously red Volkswagen Golf from 1995 with a busted headlight, a back door that refused to open, and a sputtering ignition that started the engine only if you were very lucky.

For some reason, Merlin refused to put it out of its misery, even though it was generally useless. Even such a compact car couldn’t navigate the streets of the city at peak hours. Merlin, along with all the videos Arthur had watched about the twentieth century, said there was a time when cars were so plentiful that they caused traffic jams. That was no longer the case.

Car manufactures were a thing of the past, and petrol was even harder to obtain than a vehicle. Most of it was shipped in from Canada, and the price tag wasn’t worth it to the average citizen. The only people who used cars anymore were government officials. (And, of course, Merlin, whose vehicles never needed a top up and seemed to run by magic.)

In London and all the places that fell under its jurisdiction, “government officials” meant the members of the metropolitan police. 

Everyone else got around the old fashioned way, and in some creative ways. There was the underground, but a good number of the stations and rails were still buried beneath rubble; and the frequent citywide power failures made the trains unreliable (unless one wished to become stranded on the tracks for hours or days at a time). On the streets, there were bicycles, some with carts attached to them to be used like taxis. Kids and teenagers got around on scooters and skates. And, to Arthur’s great joy, there were horses and carriages for those who could afford such a thing.

Arthur had begged for a horse, but apparently they “didn’t need one.”

Like they needed the Golf . . . 

A said horse and carriage was blocking the majority of the street up ahead. Instead of slowing down like any normal person would, Merlin revved the engine loudly. There was a kickback that jerked Arthur backwards as the bike shot down the road, squeezing past the carriage before it could so much as get its wheels rolling.

Arthur looked over his shoulder at the spooked horse, but couldn’t hear its neighing over the rumbling in his eardrums.

The sun was rising over the buildings, illuminating through the ash clouds in brilliant pinks and purples that made Arthur feel like they lived in the finger-painting of an over-zealous child. The sunrises and sets were nothing like they used to be in Camelot, before people completely lacked regard for the environment. Merlin said the leftover particles from bomb blasts created the colours. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope. It was strange that such a heinous war should produce such stunning sunsets.

As far as things went, London had been lucky. They never saw an atomic blast, despite a few close calls towards the end. Though, a certain naval base on the Clyde River in Scotland hadn’t been so fortunate, and the rest of the British Isles had felt plenty of the effects in the months to come.

Often, Arthur thought of all the people who had suffered and perished during the Winter. He hated the fact that he hadn’t been alive during it. Rationally, he knew there was nothing he could have done. He wasn’t king anymore—and, besides, that was a bad time to be a politician. Most of them ended up dead. 

But what good was being back now? In the months after Arthur had returned, Merlin constantly prattled on about so-called destiny. But that’s all it was: blithering. The War was long over, leaving only chaos and the disjointed governments that tried their best to keep some sort of order. Even they couldn’t protect their people from food shortages, sickness, theft and murder and crime, from freezing in the night. From the Neos. 

The thought of them made Arthur’s blood run hot. Every news bulletin made him despise them more, something he never thought possible with each passing day. They bled all the provinces of resources and money under the guise of providing food. The little they gave out at the beginning of each month was highly rationed, and a gamble to anyone who ate them. There had been reports of some foods being poisoned and enchanted, with magic as the only remedy. 

The Neos stole non-magical children from their homes and sold them as slaves. They took people without magic as hostages, beat them and tortured them, publically executed them. Recently, there were almost weekly police reports of a mind-controlled person setting off a bomb in public.

But, with all the influence the Neos had, the news bulletins never named the organization directly after an attack; and the person under the enchantment was painted to be the lone culprit. Arthur hoped no one actually fell for such propaganda.

People must have known that, slowly but surely, the Neos aimed to take out everyone who did not practice magic.

Arthur hated them with every fibre of himself.

But he had no real way of fighting back, short of joining a radical anti-magic group, who were terrorists in their own right. He had no power to change anything, and he despised it. He wasn’t king. He was no one.

He glanced at the man in front of him, whom his arms were still wrapped around, and wondered why all magicians couldn’t be like Merlin. If they had been, the world probably wouldn’t be in the state it was in. They could have helped. They could have saved everyone. 

But Merlin was special. Completely and utterly rare. Arthur supposed, in that sense, he was lucky. 

Merlin turned down another side street. Up ahead, there was a crowd lingering outside a residence building. Police tape and a few harried constables were keeping them from going inside. To the side, some people were being interviewed.

The bike slowed so that the vibrations splitting Arthur’s head mellowed into a quiet rumble. Merlin parked on the pavement and killed the engine. Arthur let go of Merlin’s hips and unlatched the strap of his deep red helmet. It was the same colour as the fitted leather jacket he wore. He shook his head, trying to fix his hair from falling flat.

Merlin had already gone to the back of the bike and was taking out his medical kit from the compartment. He hastily put a lanyard around his neck, and tossed the second one to Arthur. Merlin’s proclaimed him as the medical examiner. Arthur’s said he was the ME’s assistant.

The title always made him growl. It wasn’t his first choice for a cover story, but it was the only one available to get him into the crime scenes. He never had any real work to do, anyway. His main task was sticking close to Merlin, which often got annoying when he was determined to have his own look around.

Merlin closed the compartment and placed his jet-black helmet on the seat next to Arthur’s.

“Ready?” Arthur asked him, raising a brow.

Merlin flashed a grin. “You know me.”

They bypassed the crowd and showed their lanyards to one of the constables hovering around the police tape. Inside and out, the building was thrumming with activity as peopled rushed this way and that, up and down the long and narrow corridors. Walkie-talkies crackled with muffled reports that no one seemed to respond to. Someone told them to take the stairwell up to the fifth floor, which wasn’t anywhere near as packed with people as the downstairs was.

The crime scene was inside the closest door to the stairwell. It was a tiny one room flat with a filthy kitchenette fitted into one corner and a tiled bathroom in the other. A few officials were inside, some taking pictures while others collected evidence or searched the flat for clues. One woman was dusting for fingerprints, which Arthur never understood the purpose of. It usually just made everything dirty.

Arthur scanned the rest of the room, his gaze drawn to the bed beneath the flat’s only window. The mattress had been stripped of all its bedclothes. A young woman lay on top of it on her back. Her dark skin had gone pallid but, other than that, she seemed to be sleeping. She was still in her nightclothes. 

“There you are. ‘Bout time,” came the same American accent from Merlin’s radio. A willowy man with tossed brown hair and scruff on his chin broke his conversation with the officer he was speaking to in favour of Merlin and Arthur. David Wallace was an odd-looking man, with a protruding hooked nose that was far too large for his thin face but somehow became him. The size of his nostrils was often distracting, but they competed for attention with his grin, which showed all his perfect teeth and perpetually suggested he was up to no good and didn’t care who knew about it.

Arthur couldn’t decide whether or not he was handsome, or if he liked the man. He was dependable, and he seemed to genuinely care about making the city as safe as he could, though he never admitted it. But he was also incredibly abrasive, loud, and joked so often about wanting to live outside the law in total anarchy that Arthur was beginning to believe they weren’t jokes at all.

He came to the UK in 2002, at the age of seventeen, as a refugee from the States. His uncle cared for him in the following years and, in some ways, still cared for him. He was the reason Wallace had his job in the first place. 

“Hey-hey, my man!” Wallace exclaimed, giving Arthur a friendly clap on the shoulder. Whereas Arthur couldn’t make up his mind about liking Wallace, Wallace had taken to Arthur immediately.

“Hello, Wallace,” Arthur greeted amicably.

Merlin didn’t bother with niceties. “What am I looking at?”

Wallace’s expression soured when he turned his attention to Merlin and gestured towards the body. Arthur had watched the two men interact with each other for close to two and a half years now, and he never once heard them talk of anything but business. It was peculiar, because they trusted each other completely, but Arthur would hesitate to call them friends. He could only describe their relationship as friendship-adjacent.

Arthur couldn’t help but to think that was Merlin’s fault. Wallace had probably tried to get close, but Merlin didn’t exactly have friends. That fact bothered Arthur whenever he dwelled on it, because it was so unlike Merlin. In Camelot, Merlin was a friend to everyone. Now, it was like Merlin didn’t even bother. More than that, he avoided friendship. Arthur never spoke of it, but he couldn’t understand it.

“Vic’s name is Anita Arash. Twenty-three. Died early this morning,” Wallace explained, leading them to the body on the mattress. 

Merlin stared down at the corpse, assessing her for a moment. He scratched at the unruly scruff of his beard, which Arthur repeatedly told him made him look like a homeless drunkard. Merlin said that was the point. It was also the reason for the clothes he wore: ill fitting and musty. No one ever made eye contact with a vagrant. They went through life unseen.

As Arthur had learned, Merlin was very good at not being seen.

Merlin placed his medical kit on the bed. He slid a plain gold ring off his finger, which he only ever took off at crime scenes, and put it securely in his pocket. He snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves and got to work. Arthur turned his attention back to Wallace.

“You said it was _another one_? You think this is the same as the others?”

Wallace hummed. “Looks like. We won’t know for sure until after the autopsy, but from here, it looks like our boy Sauron is at it again.”

“Saruman,” Merlin muttered absent-mindedly.

“What?”

“Saruman was the wizard, not Sauron.” 

To this, Wallace seemed truly offended. “Sauron was a necromancer,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Merlin rolled his eyes in a way that must have sprained a muscle. “We don’t even know if the killer is a magician.”

Wallace scoffed like Merlin was naïve. “Yeah, well, I don’t know what else it could be if it’s not magic. There’s no cause of death for any of the victims—no wounds, no poisons. All healthy people, and their hearts just stopped suddenly. And you’re tellin’ me that’s not magic?”

Merlin glared up through his eyelashes while collecting samples from beneath the woman’s fingernails. “For magic that strong to work, there has to be a charm or something close by. And there hasn’t been.”

“Unless the killer took it with him when he left,” Arthur suggested. It seemed rather obvious.

Merlin grunted and dropped what he was doing to argue. “That’s still not how any magic works! There would be a visible cause of death! If it were voodoo, it’d be a drowning on dry land or a twisted neck. If it were a Wiccan spell, it would be a sickness or boils or—or something! It wouldn’t just be a stopped heart. Something that clean and fast is incredibly powerful magic, and I’ve never come across anything like that! Not to mention anyone who could do it. Except for, well, _me_ , if I wanted to. But it’s not me, so—.”

“Would’ya keep your damn voice down?” Wallace hissed, making Arthur looked over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t attracted any looks. The last thing they needed was someone questioning why the medical examiner knew so much about magic.

Merlin shook his head like he’d woefully given up and got back to work. 

“Whatever. I’m not counting it out,” Wallace told him, “especially because this makes—How many victims?” 

“Seven,” Arthur said, looking at the girl’s cold face. She’d been only the latest in a string of murders that began four months previous. “Seven people.”

Often, Arthur got the distinct impression that everyone present forgot each dead body used to be a real living person. Police procedure was all so clinical, with their photographs and fingerprint dust and latex gloves and police tape. The victims were nothing but empty shells to be bagged as evidence and turned into a statistic. But they were people.

Perhaps it made everyone else feel better to not think like that, but Arthur could not forget it. Anita Arash was a young woman who died at the hands of magic, probably a Neo, just as so many others had. Arthur could not help but think that, if he were Uther, he wouldn’t make excuses because of his position in this new world. He’d fight back. He’d do something about it. 

“Right, seven,” Wallace echoed thoughtfully. 

Merlin stood up again and started repacking his kit. “Same as the other six, so far. There’s nothing else I can do from here. The medics can take her to the morgue,” he reported. He took off his gloves.

“Okay, but before you go, I think there’s something else you might wanna know,” Wallace said. He looked over his shoulder like he was about to conspire. Sure enough, he leaned in closer and dropped his voice.

“The manager of this building still runs the CCTV from time to time. Not often, but apparently this building has had a theft problem recently, so he puts them on at night,” he said. “It shows footage of a guy coming in and out of this flat last night.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t Wallace led with that? “The killer? You know what he looks like?”

Wallace shook his head. “Camera didn’t get a good look, but there’s something . . . _weird_ on the footage.”

“Weird?” Arthur echoed, cocking a brow.

“Weird how?” Merlin asked.

“Your kinda weird,” Wallace confirmed. Then, the mischievous smile spread on his face and he leaned back. “Of course, there’s no reason a ME and his assistant need to see it. 

Merlin’s face hardened and he warned, “Wallace.”

“Relax, Merlin,” Arthur stepped in. “He wouldn’t have said anything if he wasn’t going to show us.” 

Wallace tapped his nose, impressed. “Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great detective?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes, though his stomach did lurch slightly at the prospect. Anything was better than a ME’s assistant. If Wallace could make him a detective instead, Arthur would decidedly begin to like the man.

“No, just a good politician,” Merlin corrected, side-eyeing Arthur.

Arthur huffed, not wanting to be reminded. Those days were in the past—the much too far distant past. Just like everything else he loved. “Where’s the footage?”

Wallace gestured for them to follow him out of the room and back down the stairs. They started for the office on the ground level, where a young constable was standing outside the door. 

“You bag the tapes for evidence yet?” Wallace asked him. 

The constable shook his head, suddenly resembling a stunned deer. “No, sir.”

Wallace erupted, “Well, why the fuck not? Jesus, it’s _evidence_! It should be taken in! Whatever—give me a few minutes with it before you bag it. Get outta here. Go make yourself useful.”

The constable quickly scampered off, tail between his legs. Wallace held the office door open to let Merlin and Arthur through before following. He closed it behind them. Arthur was immediately claustrophobic in the cramped, cluttered space, but he swallowed it down.

They crowded around the office’s desk, piled high with papers, food wrappers, cigarette butts and ash, and a television placed precariously on top of it all. 

“DVD’s already in,” Wallace said, picking up the remote control from the top of the box. The screen flashed on, and the footage was already queued up. The black and white image showed the hallway, empty all but for drink cans and litter. The seconds on the timestamp, reading _2:43_ in the morning, on the top-left corner whizzed by.

Just when Arthur was beginning to get impatient, a figure walked into the frame. His movements were choppy due to the quality of the grainy footage. His back was to the camera. He was wearing a dark hoodie, the hood up so that his face was hidden even when he turned to the victim’s door. He turned the knob and pushed inside without hassle.

It surprised Arthur. “The door was unlocked?”

“Apparently, not. Lends more to _magic_ theory, right?” said Wallace, and Arthur had to agree. He eyed Merlin briefly before looking back to the telly.

“But, check this out.” Wallace fast-forwarded as he spoke. The image remained the same, save for the static lines that appeared on the screen. The timestamp played at an accelerated pace until Wallace hit the _play_ button at _2:57:13_. 

Momentarily, the door opened again, and the hooded man backed out of the flat. He was dragging something long and bulky as he went, and it wasn’t until he was fully in the corridor did Arthur realise what it was. It appeared to be a man, as the figure was much too large to be anything but. (In fact, he was even too large to be an average-built man.) He was wrapped in a quilt, tied together at the shoulders, hips, and knees by ripped up bed sheets, so that he remained completely covered.

The only things not covered were his calves and feet, where the hooded man gripped him by the ankles as he pulled. There was a sliver of dark trousers above tall, leather riding boots, a style Arthur thought uncommon for men of this era. The wrapped up man didn’t appear to be moving, either dead or unconscious.

“What the hell?” Arthur exclaimed, leaning in closer as though it could give him a better view of the footage.

Wallace was tapping the tip of the remote against his lips, his eyes glued to the television. “Watch what he does here.”

On screen, the hooded man, who seemed to be having a difficult time dragging the other, paused. He looked over his shoulder briefly, his hood shadowing his face, and then turned back around. He doubled his pulling efforts in earnest, going as quickly as he could until both people were off screen.

“See that? That look over his shoulder? I think he might be working with someone,” Wallace said as the DVD continued to play. The hallway remained empty, but there appeared to be a gust of wind because the clutter on the floor rolled and scattered before resettling.

“Can’t say for sure, though. There aren’t any cameras in the stairwell, and there’s no footage of them on any other floor,” said Wallace. “My working theory is that they went through the basement.” Arthur had no doubt a team, similar to the one in the flat, was collecting evidence in the cellar as they spoke.

“Can I see that?” Merlin asked tonelessly, reaching for the remote control. Wallace gave it over without a word, and Merlin rewound the footage to the beginning.

Arthur turned to Wallace. “What about that man he was dragging? Who is he?”

“No idea!” Wallace exclaimed like it was somehow spectacular. Arthur raised a brow. “We talked to the other building tenants. Everyone’s accounted for. Not a single person missing since last night.” 

Arthur didn’t see why that was the focus of the interviews. The man was taken from the victim’s flat, after all. “It could have been the victim’s brother or father.”

“Nope.” Wallace shook his head, seeming entirely too amused by the mystery. “Only people who lived there were Anita and her younger sister. 

“A boyfriend, then.”

“Sister said Anita didn’t have one,” was the answer. “She’s at the precinct waiting to give an official report, but she swears the vic was alone. Sister’d been out all night at some rave or something. Didn’t get back until early this morning, said she noticed the door was unlocked. That’s when she found Anita.”

Arthur imagined how difficult the shock must have been for her, and briefly wondered if the woman was now alone in the world. But he was too focused on the unconscious man to dwell on anything else for very long. He was a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit anywhere.

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring off blankly at the television screen as Merlin rewound for what must have been the third time.

“Maybe Anita was seeing someone her sister didn’t know about?” he reached.

“That’s what I thought, but we have footage of the sister leaving for the night. No one else came in or out until the killer—uh, _suspect_ —,” Wallace corrected with the proper amount of scepticism, “showed up. And there’s no fire escape leading to the window, either. No way in but the door.”

Arthur scoffed. It was impossible, unless the sister was lying about there being another person in the flat. Arthur highly doubted that. If he were in her shoes, he’d give all the information he could to help find his sister’s killer. There was no explanation Arthur could see, which made him flush with frustration—not to mention, a headache. Detective work was hard.

“Surely, he didn’t just appear out of thin air!” 

Wallace was grinning again. He wriggled his eyebrows. “Like I said, weird.”

Merlin had paused the video where the hooded man looked over his shoulder. He was staring at the screen and holding the remote up in his hands, pointing it forward in the same suspended animation as the man on screen. 

A thought struck Arthur. “Let’s say this man didn’t just appear out of nowhere. What of the other murders? Had anyone gone missing then?”

Wallace let out a whoop. “See, you’re thinkin’ like a detective again! Man, stop trying to steal my job.”

Arthur almost rolled his eyes, but managed by god’s grace to refrain. He wasn’t sure if Wallace was being patronising or if he was trying too hard to get on Arthur’s good side.

“There weren’t any reports of anyone going missing from those locations in the weeks after the murders,” Wallace finally answered. “But I sent some people to do follow-ups. There’s a chance we might have missed something.” 

Arthur was interested to hear the results of those interviews, but before he could say so, Merlin spoke up, “Arthur, look.”

First, he tuned his attention to Merlin, trying to read the lines of his profile. He wasn’t blinking. His gaze was fixed on the screen. Arthur pulled a perplexed face before following his line of sight. It was the same image as the before: the hooded man looking over his shoulder.

Arthur shrugged. “Merlin, what—?”

“ _Look_.”

“I _am_ looking! What is this about?”

Merlin let out a frustrated sound and started playing with the remote. After a few tries, and a few wrong buttons, he managed to zoom in on the paused image. He continued to do so until the hooded man’s shadowed face filled the screen.

The image was dark, and extremely pixilated, but Arthur thought he saw something familiar in the blur. Half of the man’s face wasn’t as deeply shadowed as the rest, but it would be impossible to make out the features unless you knew what you were looking for. 

And Arthur thought he did know.

The dent of the chin, the tight purse of the lips, the curve of the Grecian nose. The sharp eyes. Arthur knew them.

A phantom spike of pain shot through Arthur’s chest, right where a scar was from the sword that dealt him a fatal blow. 

Arthur squinted at the face. He tried to convince himself he was imagining things.

That was until Merlin asked, “You see it, too?” He sounded as though something was blocking his throat. He was still staring at the screen, too stunned to move.

“You recognise him?” demanded Wallace, who was also squinting at the screen.

Arthur realised his teeth were aching from the strain he was putting on his jaw. He straightened out, trying to gain composure. He focused on Wallace, welcoming anything but the man on the screen. Though his eyes weren’t on it anymore, he could still see the image on the forefront of his mind. 

The man haunted him.

“It’s hard not to recognise the man who killed me,” he answered.

“Mordred,” Merlin hissed. His tone was dripping with an emotion Arthur couldn’t quite place. It could have been either hatred or fear.

Wallace’s eyes—and nostrils—went wide. He did a few double takes between Arthur and the screen. “Mordred? As in, _legend_ Mordred?” he gaped. “The kid you had with your sister?” 

Suddenly, Arthur only had room for confusion. “The—What? _No_!” Confusion faded to annoyance as he hit Merlin on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “What rumours have you been allowing them to spread?”

Merlin seemed unaffected. He didn’t even glare. He was frozen in place.

“Mordred was one of my knights,” Arthur told Wallace with force, wanting to get the record straight. His tone became more bitter as he continued, “And a sorcerer. He betrayed me.”

He looked at the screen again. He couldn’t help himself. Mordred wasn’t leering at him, but it felt like he was.

“Merlin, how is this possible? _Mordred_ killed all those people? That means he’d been back for months. Why didn’t you know about this? Aren’t you supposed to be able to—to _sense_ magic or something?”

All the colour drained from Merlin and he stammered a little. He was trying to come up with an excuse, trying to wrestle with his guilt of not knowing of Mordred’s presence. It wasn’t fair, and Arthur knew it the moment the words left his mouth. Merlin couldn’t have possibly known. He had no reason to ever consider the possibility, unless there was something he hadn’t told Arthur. 

That was unlikely. Since Arthur had been back, Merlin tried very hard to be honest about everything. He’d told Arthur everything that had happened in Camelot, all the ways Merlin used his magic to protect Arthur and the kingdom. He even told Arthur he could read his journals from over the centuries. 

Arthur had tried to read them, but they were mostly accounts on how different magics worked or medical practices from the world over; and Arthur couldn’t understand half the things he’d read. His eyes always glazed over two pages in. Trying to spare himself, he told Merlin it wasn’t necessary that he read them all. He trusted Merlin. But Merlin insisted, so Arthur sometimes skimmed through them when he had nothing better to do, just to placate Merlin.

The point was, Merlin didn’t hide anything from Arthur anymore. If Merlin ever suspected Mordred was still alive—by the same magic that kept Merlin alive or by resurrection—Arthur would know about it.

“He _can’t_ be back,” Arthur kept on, and realised he was probably panicking. Try as he might, he couldn’t reel himself in. “He’s _dead_! I _know_ he is! I _killed_ him!” Suddenly, irrationally, he wasn’t so sure. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes!”

“Then, where the hell did he come from?”

Merlin turned around quickly, obviously not wanting the screen in his line of vision anymore. “The only place he could have come from. Avalon.”

It shouldn’t have hit Arthur as hard as it did. He knew he wasn’t the only thing that Avalon had spit out. There were more reports of creatures of magic terrorizing the provinces every day. But he never considered another human would come through. Merlin said he was the only one, because it was his destiny.

So, was this his destiny? For more people to die because of him?

They hadn’t known Mordred was alive, but he must have known about them. That was the only explanation. He was killing people for something—for some form of vengeance. All these centuries, and his hatred for Arthur hadn’t changed. And it was Arthur’s fault. He had let a Druid into Camelot. He had trusted him. He had angered him, driven him to betrayal. Arthur should have known. He should have done more.

Arthur might as well have killed the victims himself.

“Alright, look, I’ll bring this image in and see if anyone at the lab can enhance it,” Wallace promised, his voice softer than it had been before as he read the tension of the situation. “We’ll get it out on the news bulletins, tell people to be on the lookout. 

Arthur rattled his head. It wasn’t good enough. Mordred needed to be found now, before he killed again. He needed to know just how long Mordred had been alive, and how he got back.

“Look into all the checkpoints from here to Glastonbury,” he ordered, surprised by the authority in his own voice. It had been a long time since he’d used that tone, the one of a king. But it was needed now, so he powered through. “Find out if any of the agents saw him—and _when_.” 

Merlin, who had gone very quiet, jumped in. “No. He could have made them forget his face. Check the CCTV footage, if the checkpoints have them. It’s possible he passed through one without knowing what a camera is. He may still not know. He didn’t give the one here a second glance.”

Wallace tapped his fingers against his hips like he was about to cause a fuss. “Okay, but not all the provinces are gonna be too happy giving up that footage. Glastonbury’s in the Republic of Exeter. Good luck getting anything out of Chancellor Brown.” He snorted the name, rolling his eyes.

Arthur refused to let that stop them. “There has to be a way.” He snapped his fingers into an idea. “Ask your uncle to get them! He’s the Police Commissioner. He’ll have some pull.”

“Not without owing Brown a favour, he won’t.”

“People are dying,” Arthur reminded him of the gravity of the situation. He had to believe the leaders of the provinces would take the wellbeing of their people into account. Arthur didn’t care about how many favours were owed. This was about people’s lives, not politics. He, more than anyone, knew it was often a fine line between the two, but the line did, in fact, exist.

“Fine,” Wallace conceded. “I’ll talk to my uncle, but if he can’t do anything, we’ll have to go with Plan B and steal the footage.” His grin was back. “Yeah? Huh? Have us a heist? Who’s in?” 

“You’ll figure something out,” Merlin told him, not even pretending to be amused.

Wallace’s expression dropped. “Yeah, I’m always figuring out shit for you, Ambrosius.”

“It’s because I make you look good.”

“Yeah, well, seven people are dead and the only lead I have is a fairytale character. How does that make me look good?”

Merlin acted like he hadn’t heard the question. He picked up his medical kit and said, “I need to do some research. I need to figure out how this . . .” He gestured vaguely to the television, but couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He let himself trail off.

Arthur, however, couldn’t stop staring now that it had reclaimed his attention.

Wallace blocked Merlin’s path to the exit. “Wait, hang on! Just because your buddy is back in town, doesn’t mean you get out of doing that autopsy!”

“Autopsy?” Arthur echoed, ripping his eyes away from the screen. “Why does he need to do that? We know how she died! _Mordred_ killed her!”

The weight of it all crashed down on him again now that he’d said it aloud. He felt as though he were caught in an undertow.

“I need an official report,” he was vaguely aware of Wallace saying. Arthur hated how bureaucratic the world had become. It left little room for action. Meanwhile, people like Mordred were given the opportunity to kill again. 

Merlin ran a shaking hand through his hair, seeming flustered. “Fine. I’ll do it this afternoon. Let me go back to my flat first. I’ll take some books to the morgue.”

Wallace seemed satisfied, so he let Merlin push past. However, when Merlin opened the door again, he paused and turned back around. “And he wasn’t my _buddy_ ,” he gritted out before disappearing.

Arthur’s feet were pinned to the floor as he remembered the months before Mordred’s betrayal, before he knew what Mordred really was. Mordred had been _his_ friend. He’d been his most promising knight. He was young enough and had enough potential to one day be first knight after Leon stepped down. Arthur had wanted that for Mordred. He’d had such plans for him.

“You alright, man?” Wallace’s hand was on Arthur’s shoulder. The man was hovering, fishing for his eyes, which must have been very far off.

Arthur snapped to attention. “Fine.”

“You sure? It’s a lot to handle—.”

“I’m _fine_ , Wallace!”

Wallace took his hand back and held both up in surrender. He walked backwards for a few paces until turning to exit the office. In the hallway, Arthur heard him shout, “Why hasn’t anyone bagged the CCTV footage yet? At least pretend you’re professionals! Chop, chop!”He

 

///

 

Once he’d opened the door to the bathroom, Merlin could breathe easier. He didn’t realise how humid it’d been until he stepped out, away from tangy scent of shampoo and the fogged over mirror that wouldn’t clear up despite the streaks he’d wiped into it.

He dried his hair off as best he could with the damp towel and hung it before exiting to the living room. Arthur was sitting on the sofa, his feet kicked up onto the coffee table, and munching on some cheese puffs. A documentary about the Vietnam War was playing in the VCR.

About a month after Arthur had returned, once he’d gotten over the fact that he’d woken up in the twenty-first century, he sat Merlin down and very sternly told him that he wanted to know everything that had happened in the world since his death—everything he’d missed, everything that led humanity up to its current state.

Merlin spared himself the agony of verbally recounting every detail of the history and science to Arthur, mostly because he didn’t want to spend that much time reliving the past. So he bought some books but, mostly, he bought Arthur tapes and DVDs. They were mostly dusty historical documentaries that no one had ever heard of, but there were some movies based on true stories or fiction that stuck close enough to the reality of warfare. 

Because when Arthur said “I want to know what’s been happening,” Merlin knew he had not been talking about the history of technology or agricultural. He was talking about war and politics. That alone was such a nuanced topic, Arthur would be at it for years. If Merlin actually did spend money on the videos, the collection they now boasted would have cost a mint. 

Arthur watched all of them, some multiple times. He was starting to know more about history than Merlin did, and he’d lived through it.

“Any word from Wallace?” Merlin asked, eyeing the walkie on the table next to Arthur’s feet. While he was in the shower, he’d entrusted Arthur to man the radio.

A soft growling sound was coming from the far corner of the room, where a black cat was stalking close to a chewed up hole in the base of the wall. Archie was in full predator mode, but the mouse living in the floorboards probably knew better than to come out by now. Merlin had found the cat four years previous, when it was just a kitten. It was a stray that had somehow been abandoned by its mother and found its way into the basement of the factory building. If not for a burst water pipe, Merlin would have never found the cat, small and cold and emaciated with hunger. He’d nursed it back to health and named it, and since then both he and Archie silently agreed to stick together.

“Nothing,” Arthur said with agitation, like he’d been watching the walkie more than he had been the documentary. 

Merlin eyed the bag of cheese puffs as he plopped onto the cushion next to Arthur. “That’s dinner, is it?” he reproved.

“We’ve got nothing in.”

Merlin’s stomach grumbled when he remembered the empty fridge and cabinets. Thankfully, it was the end of the month, which meant the supermarkets were getting their deliveries soon. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” he said.

He sank back against the couch’s armrest and kicked his legs into Arthur’s lap, and Arthur lifted his arms to make room for him. When he’d settled, he watched the line of Arthur’s jaw tense as his eyes continuously flickered to the walkie.

“He’ll call,” Merlin promised. “He’s got his work cut out for him.”

Arthur huffed and seemed to lose his appetite. He offered the bag of crisps to Merlin, who snatched it and promptly began crunching. He watched the images moving on screen but couldn’t hear much of the narration over chewing, or the smacking sounds Arthur made when he sucked the artificial cheese dust off his fingers. Merlin scrunched his nose in distaste at that. He hated the cheese dust plain and spit-soaked. It was so unnatural. (Not that any food product was strictly natural anymore, but artificial cheese didn’t even try to hide it. It was in the name, for god’s sake.)

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but Merlin could practically hear the thoughts spinning in Arthur’s mind, radiating off Arthur’s tense shoulders. Merlin’s thoughts played in the same one-track mindset. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing he could do until they heard from Wallace, but his feet still itched to carry him onto the dark streets and find Mordred before he could fill his lungs with another breath.

Merlin’s eyes were perpetually on the doors and windows, waiting for Mordred to crash through them at any time. He didn’t know how long Mordred had been back, but his threat seemed imminent now that they knew he lived. 

“Do you really think Mordred came from Avalon?” Arthur finally asked, no longer able to keep it in. He seemed repulsed that someone like Mordred could come back into the world through the same place as him. 

Merlin considered. He’d been considering it all day, all through his work in the morgue, his drive home, his shower. “I don’t know how else he would have gotten here.”

Arthur didn’t seem to like the answer one bit. “So, it’s not just those beasts that are coming back? It’s sorcerers, too—from our time?”

“I don’t think so,” Merlin was quick to say. He didn’t want Arthur jumping to any conclusions. “I think we’d hear about it if people from the dark ages were suddenly roaming around the provinces. Even if the public didn’t know about them, Wallace would. He’d tell us.”

Of course, it made Mordred an anomaly, which was troubling. It raised a slew of questions: When was he resurrected? How? Was he summoned? Was someone really helping him? What was he doing here? What did he want?

“Then, why him? Of all people?”

Arthur had voiced the biggest question of them all—one that Merlin needed answered, but wasn’t sure he wanted answered. It threatened to swallow him whole; because, apart from Mordred, Arthur was the only other anomaly.

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted, suddenly forgetting about the telly and the food and the game of cat and mouse. His mind zeroed in on Mordred. He retreated back into memory, back to the day that little Druid boy had escaped from Camelot. Merlin could have prevented all of this on that day . . . 

“He’s up to something,” Arthur stated, his tone a mix of anger and frustration, and maybe even regret. “All those people he’s killed . . .” He shook his head ruefully.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Merlin said, though he was afraid it only raised more questions. “Now that we know it’s Mordred, we know his targets can’t be random. Victims of serial murders usually fit a pattern, but maybe this one is more than meets the eye. They could have been people who practice some form of magic or maybe—,” he reached, trying to come up with another idea, “I don’t know, descendents of the Druids.”

“ _Or_ he needs innocent lives to sacrifice for some _magic_ he’s brewing up.” Arthur had bit down on the word _magic_ , like he sometimes did after a bulletin outlining a Neo attack. His reaction always twisted Merlin’s stomach in defence or sadness, even if the crime was heinous. It made Merlin think Arthur considered all magic users but him evil. 

But Merlin couldn’t deny that magic did possibly fuel Mordred’s motives for the killings. And, besides, Arthur had accepted Merlin’s magic, at the very least. He’d even learned to trust it. He was trying, and that was all Merlin could really hope for after the beliefs Arthur had been raised into.

“It’s me he wants.” Arthur seemed so sure. Every line on his face turned to stone, but his eyes were so full of regret. “All those people who died—it’s because of me.”

No. No matter what Arthur felt, none of this was his fault. Merlin had made Mordred what he is. Merlin was to blame. Arthur was just the one who’d paid the price.

“Whatever it is, we’ll get our answers as soon as we get Mordred,” Merlin reasoned, trying not to let his own fears on the matter drip into his tone. They couldn’t afford to both be vulnerable at the same time. “And we can’t do anything until Wallace gives—.” 

“—Us a lead, I know,” Arthur hastily finished for him. “And what if he doesn’t? Even if he can get the footage, it doesn’t mean anything will be on them.”

“Then, we’ll find another way! We won’t let Mordred get away with this.”

“No,” Arthur agreed fiercely. “I won’t have anyone else harmed because of him.” Because of _me_ , was what he really meant.

Merlin didn’t really know what to say. There was too much he _could_ say, but all of it died in his throat.

Arthur dropped his shoulders and slunk back into the cushion. “I just feel so useless sitting around doing nothing.”

Merlin could empathize, even though his methods of moving against Mordred would be a lot slier and buckets less grandiose than Arthur would have done back in his time. “Yes, but you haven’t got an army to deploy after him anymore, remember?”

Arthur snorted. It was the first hint of a smile Merlin had seen on him all day, even though it was bitter. “Don’t remind me.”

Arthur’s eyes were back on the screen. Merlin watched his profile, and he was only vaguely aware of the smooth, even tones of the documentary’s narrator.

“Now I’ve missed a lot,” Arthur complained. “Why didn’t America ever officially declare war?”

Merlin shrugged and popped another cheese puff into his mouth. He said around it, “Because I told Eisenhower not to.”

Arthur raised a sceptical brow. “You know, Merlin, I’m starting to think you make up half the things you say.”

The food scratched his throat when Merlin swallowed. “Half? Give me some credit. I make up _at least_ two-thirds!”

It made Arthur roll his eyes, and Merlin was glad he’d taken Arthur’s mind off Mordred. Because Merlin couldn’t stop thinking about him. All his life, he’d tried to figure out why destiny would bring Arthur back, what Albion’s great time of need would entail. Never in his years did he think it’d be Mordred. 

He suddenly felt very unprepared, like his whole life had been wasted. He’d focused on the wrong thing. He should have accounted for Mordred. He thought of the face he had seen amongst the desert sands of the Great Plains.

He should have known Mordred wasn’t in the past. 

Merlin had lost Arthur once to Mordred’s vengeance. He couldn’t do it again. And yet, it felt unavoidable. Mordred was the ghost that haunted Merlin all his life, the shadow in the corner and the monster under the bed. He’d been the one person Merlin couldn’t beat when he needed to the most. He couldn’t even beat Mordred’s memory.

Did this mean Mordred was the reason Arthur had returned? Was Mordred Albion’s greatest threat? Could it really be so simple?

If so, Merlin couldn’t fail Arthur again. He’d die first.

He swallowed all his thoughts down, not wanting them to plague Arthur’s mind.

He reached into the bag of crisps to find it empty. All that was left was cheese dust, stuck into the plastic corners and lining Merlin’s fingertips. He certainly wouldn’t wipe it off on the sofa. That would only leave more mice for Archie to hunt. 

Merlin reached up and twiddled his orange fingers in front of Arthur’s face. He let out an inquiring sound.

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur scolded, slapping Merlin’s hand away but Merlin didn’t relent. “Not this again. Don’t be a child.”

“But you like it! I don’t!” Merlin argued. “Are you _really_ going to make me get up to wash it off?”

Arthur scoffed. “Will you _ever_ stop being lazy?”

“Probably not.” He kept twiddling as tantalizingly as he could, which isn’t actually easy to do when one’s fingers are covered in fake cheese. “You have to. It was in our vows.”

Arthur scrunched his face and glared like Merlin was the biggest idiot in the world. “It was not!" 

Merlin answered with conviction, “Yes, it was. See, I keep saying you never listen to me. It was sickness, health, death do us part—etcetera, etcetera—cheese puff dust. It’s why I married you.”

Arthur didn’t seem moved by the sentiment. “Well, if that was the only reason, you could have said no.”

“Hey! Don’t forget who asked who!” 

“Yes, but you beat me to it by—.”

“—A _day_. Whatever you say.” When Arthur remained less than convinced, Merlin did more twiddling and whined, “Come _on_! I’ll suck something of yours.” It never hurt to sweeten the pot a little.

At once, Arthur’s face brightened. “Well, now you’re talking!” He seemed to forget all about the documentary. With the speed and agility that could only belong to a warrior, he pinned Merlin to the cushions with his body.

Merlin grumbled happily as he situated himself beneath Arthur’s weight. He opened his legs to fit Arthur between him, getting him as close as he could. Arthur was already nibbling on his jaw line.

“Not what I asked for!” Merlin reminded him, even though his voice came out hoarse.

“I’m getting to that!”

Arthur took Merlin’s wrist between them and started working on his fingers. His tongue wrapped around each one in turn, hot and sticky with saliva that made his lips glisten. Merlin bit his own lip as he stared. He was all too aware of Arthur’s body: the scrape of his teeth against Merlin’s skin, the beat of his heart against Merlin’s shirt, the heat flushing his cheeks, his dilated pupils, and his stiffening below.

He met Merlin’s eyes laughingly, causing a puff of hot air around Merlin’s finger. He gave one last deep pull on Merlin’s index, hollowing his cheeks, before releasing it with frustrating slowness.

“Satisfied?” Arthur teased.

Merlin swallowed hard. “Not even close.”

With veiled eyes and a rumbling hum, Arthur leaned in for slow kisses. Merlin’s hands slid beneath Arthur’s shirt to explore the dips and lines of his spine. His magic tickled in his fingertips. It was eager to touch Arthur for itself, to praise the golden skin and lean muscles of the body it served. Merlin’s magic was built for Arthur; Arthur’s body was its temple.

Merlin couldn’t be sure what his magic was doing to Arthur, but Arthur was moaning ceaselessly into his mouth. Their vibrations travelled along Merlin’s lips as Arthur deepened the kiss with new hunger.

Merlin smirked against him and responded by fitting one hand between them. It snaked into the front of Arthur’s trousers, and Arthur twitched at first contact. He drew in a hissing breath and broke away from Merlin. He buried his nose into the crook of Merlin’s neck.

In seconds, Arthur was working his hips to gyrate into Merlin’s fist. His shoulders arched and squirmed, and Merlin watched them with panting breaths. He felt like he was on fire—his chest, the muscles pumping in his arm, the stirring low in his abdomen.

Arthur was groaning loudly. When the sounds mixed with exclamations of Merlin’s name, Merlin knew he was close to release. He moved faster, relishing in Arthur’s body pressing and rutting into him. Arthur’s breath heated his neck, causing aching goose bumps.

There was a dull pain when Arthur sank his teeth into Merlin’s collar to stifle a shout. He came hot and fast into Merlin’s hand. And, when the sounds he made faded from desperate to undone, Merlin listened to them over his own ragged exhales.

Arthur rested his head on Merlin’s shoulder to catch his breath. His body was limp, blanketing Merlin. Merlin pecked a kiss to Arthur’s hairline.

Every inch of Merlin was pulsing.

But his throat was dry and his mind was reeling with one single thought. _Do not fail_. He felt time imposing on them from all sides. Something was lurking too close for comfort. He felt like he was holding on to Arthur for dear life with broken fingers. 

“Arthur, whatever’s to happen—,” he began, but he couldn’t bring himself to go on. It was too much. He wasn’t ready to give Arthur up, for destiny to make him the shining saviour of legend. Merlin just wanted a little more time in ordinary life, of Arthur all to himself.

Arthur was his, not the world’s. Not yet.

It was a selfish thought. Arthur was needed, and Merlin would follow wherever Arthur led. Forever.

What else had his life been for?

Arthur propped himself up to look at Merlin. For a moment, his eyes were young and fearful at the prospect of the future, but they quickly twinkled with pushed lightheartedness. “Out with it, Merlin. You’re not going to start crying on me, are you? Because that would really ruin the mood.”

Merlin tried to smile. “No,” he said, closing his eyes and holding back the pressure building behind them. A lump was forming in his throat.

“Good,” said Arthur, his tone as brave as it had always been right before he went into battle. There was a world resting on Arthur’s shoulders, but he’d never let anyone know just how much it weighed. “Because, whatever’s to come, we’ll get through it. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you and I will see the other side of it.”

The air trembled as Merlin breathed it in. “Promise?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur emphasized.

Merlin decided to believe him. He had to remember their destiny. Arthur was fated to save Albion from peril, to bring about its glory days. He was to be victorious, when all was said and done. Merlin didn’t care if he made it to the end, so long as Arthur did.

He had to trust Arthur’s destiny. He’d believed in it for so long and, when his faith in destiny failed, he believed in Arthur.

They were enough, even if the whole world was against them. They were together and finally on the same page. After all this time, Merlin would finally see Arthur become the man he was meant to be. The thought of it alone caused him to ache with pride and longing. That day would come soon, but they’d have to get through hardships first. Merlin had to be ready. He convinced himself he was.

When Arthur kissed him again, it was gentle and savouring. They took each other clothes off without haste, worshiped each other’s bodies without rush, and fucked like they were allotted more time than was given to them.

And, god, Merlin loved him. He’d raze cities and boil seas and lay down his life for him.

They were enough. Just the two of them. Merlin needed nothing else.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur didn’t miss being king.

Really. He didn’t.

He didn’t miss the boring council meetings that he struggled to stay awake during as stuffy members of court droned on about crop raising, how the army was going to afford new shields, or the number of crimes in the lower town that week. He didn’t miss staying up half the night trying to come up with a creative way to avoid taxing the people. He didn’t miss holding excruciatingly long feasts to entertain royal or noble guests he severely disliked. He didn’t miss holding jousting tourneys he couldn’t participate in because no one wanted to oppose the king. He didn’t miss having every moment of his day scheduled and scrutinized, paperwork up to his eyeballs, dealing with constant threats to the kingdom, not being able to sleep late into the morning, or the way the law tied his hands when a punishment didn’t fit the crime.

And he _definitely_ didn’t miss the crushing weight of every decision resting, ultimately, on him alone.

All his life, he’d daydream about what it’d be like if he were born into another life. He considered life on a farm, far away from the duties of court. It would be simple and honest, completely obscure. A normal life. 

It was a dream that Arthur dwelled on, but never sincerely wished to become reality. Because, if he were honest with himself, he knew he wouldn’t last a week. Not because he didn’t know the first thing about farming. (He was sure he could figure that out. After all, how difficult could it be?) It was because he’d miss Camelot too much.

Arthur didn’t miss being king, but he longed for his kingdom.

All his duties as king were worth it, because he did them for his people. He sat through boring meetings about crops so that every family had enough rations for the winter. He slaved over tax laws so that the citizens had money to spare. He hosted tournaments so that revenue came into the kingdom. He sat through feasts with people he hated, executed laws he didn’t always agree with, and made sure the army had all the supplies they needed so that the kingdom remained safe and at peace with her neighbours. He played the political games, often making enemies in court when their agendas didn’t align with his conscience, so that everyone in the realm could live in a just and prosperous land.

He wrestled with every decision he made because he cared so much, and didn’t want to fail his people. And many times he had failed, but he always tried.

He missed Camelot. He missed the places he would play in as a child: in the courtyard, climbing on the statue and jumping from each cobblestone in attempt to never land on the cracks; in the fields, rolling down the hills; in the forest, horseback riding through the trees; in the citadel, hiding behind the tapestries and giggling until someone found him.

He missed dinner with his father, even if it was just to talk about business. He missed bickering with Morgana. He missed hunting trips with his knights. He missed the cream pastries made by the chef, who always seemed to know when it had been a particularly trying day and favoured him with an extra helping. He missed showing off during training with the new squires. He missed the way the room would suddenly brighten when Guinevere walked in. He missed the scent of the air, the firm ground under his feet, the taste of the water, the view from the highest towers that revealed his kingdom for as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Merlin was the only thing left of the city now. Having him was a godsend, if Arthur thought about it—which he never actually did. He supposed he took Merlin for granted. He always expected him to be at his side, like his presence wasn’t even a question. It was Merlin. He was always there. Even in Arthur’s fantasy about life as a farmer, there was always room for Merlin. 

Because Arthur loved him more than he thought he could ever love another person. But he loved Camelot more.

The kingdom was not a piece of him. It _was_ him. Every pulse of his beating heart, each of his thoughts from morning to night, all of his duties, all of himself. He didn’t know who he was without Camelot. Even now, going on three years without it, he sometimes felt as though he would one day go back. This separation, every moment of which made him feel like he was being ripped apart by a thousand ravenous teeth, was only temporary. If he endured it long enough, he’d one day go back home.

Though he knew it could never be, the reality of it never truly dawned on him. He couldn’t accept it.

Perhaps that was why he was so keen on accompanying Merlin to the crime scenes, even before he knew Mordred was the perpetrator. He wanted to feel effective again. Arthur had his taste of normality, and it turned out he wasn’t built for it. He couldn’t sit around and live a selfish life. He wanted to have some kind of connection to the people of this world, to know he was keeping them from harm. He wanted to protect them—though, it seemed, all he ever saw were dead bodies.

Such as the one they were currently standing around.

It had been eleven days since Anita Arash’s murder. Wallace had managed to obtain all the footage he needed from the checkpoints. Apparently, Chancellor Brown had given them away fairly easily, once he learned a magician was behind the murders. Magic was banned in his province, which invited more Neo attacks than any other province. But Brown never wavered on the law.

Either way, there was no sign of Mordred on any of the footage so far. Arthur and Merlin had combed through half the tapes themselves, but turned up nothing.

The semi-enhanced image of Mordred pulled from the CCTV was put on the news bulletin once, but never again. It enraged Arthur. Merlin said the Neos were probably behind it, as it was their agenda to keep magicians out of jail.

And now there was another body, a middle-aged man called Nicholas Saylor. His heart had stopped, but it had nothing to do with his pre-existing condition. They only knew this because the crime had been interrupted—not soon enough to save Mr. Saylor, but it had been interrupted nonetheless when Mrs. Saylor got home and saw a hooded man huddled over her husband’s body on the floor.

She had screamed bloody murder just before, in her own words (recounted between sobs), “’e threw me against the wall, ‘e did! No, not with ‘is ‘ands! Wif ‘is eyes! They glowed up—gold! An’ then ‘e just ran out the door! What? No, I don’t need’a ‘ospital! Or to sit down! I told’ya, gold eyes! I got the bump to prove it!" 

She didn’t see how Mordred killed her husband, but she did get a good look at his face. She was taken to the station to speak with a sketch artist, but Arthur assumed the rendered image wouldn’t appear on the nightly bulletin, either. 

“So,” Wallace said as he, Arthur, and Merlin stared down at the body’s bulging stomach and balding pallid head, “you still wanna tell me this isn’t magic?”

Merlin glared at him through his eyelashes.

A constable appeared at Wallace’s side. “Sir,” she said promptly, “I think we’ve found another victim in the cellar.”

Arthur’s heart jumped. His eyes shot to Merlin in question, but Merlin was gaping at the constable. Mordred had never taken two lives on the same day, and certainly not in the same place. Maybe he was trying to rush whatever it was he was doing. Maybe he knew Arthur and Merlin had found out about him.

“A body?” Wallace pressed, seeming just as thrown.

The constable shook her head. “No, sir. She’s alive.”

Arthur thought of the man being dragged in the CCTV footage.

“Show me.” Wallace immediately cut through the throng, following the constable to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Arthur pushed after him with Merlin at his heels.

The basement was concrete, damp, and windowless. A broken boiler, with an array of piping shooting up to the ceiling, sat in one corner. If not for the small group of people huddled in the centre of the room, Arthur probably would have heard rats squeaking in the walls. Right now, however, the only filth in the basement was mould and asbestos.

The group of officers parted for Wallace once they caught sight of him. A medic was crouched down, her latex-gloved fingers checking the pulse of the unconscious woman curled on the floor.

The woman was on her side, her back facing Arthur where she lay. Though he couldn’t see her fully, it struck Arthur how out of place she seemed in this new world. Her clothes reminded him of something he might have seen a peasant wearing in Camelot’s lower town. It was a white tunic and an animal-fur shawl shoved into a thick leather belt. The slacks were a dark colour, and the faded boots were caked in dirt.

The ensemble was . . . familiar. Arthur swore he’d seen it before, but he couldn’t place where.

He narrowed his eyes at the mess of tight curls spiralling about the woman’s head.

The medic removed her fingers from the woman’s throat. In the motion, some of the curls fell out of her face. Air left Arthur as though he’d been punched in the gut.

“Guinevere!”

He ran the rest of the way to her. Before he fully realised it, he was on his knees ripping Gwen away from the medic and supporting her limply on his legs. The medic gave him a scandalized glare, and he was aware of the strange looks everyone else was directing his way, but he only had eyes for Gwen. She remained still, but she was breathing shallowly.

He readjusted her on his lap and cupped a palm to her cheek. She was warm and soft, just as he remembered. His heart felt like it might burst if she didn’t wake up soon. 

In front of him, Merlin replaced the medic. He knelt down and scanned Gwen for any apparent injuries—or perhaps not. There was something wary in his eyes, disbelieving and uncertain, as though he thought her presence was some sort of trick. Arthur wouldn’t allow such thoughts in. She was solid and real and in his arms again.

Merlin ghosted a palm over her forehead, like he was about to touch her but couldn’t bring himself to do so. He seemed to change his mind, and retracted his hand.

“Merlin, how—?” Arthur began to ask, even if he really didn’t care about the answer. He supposed, on some level, the reason for Gwen’s being there was important; but she was there no matter what. That’s all that mattered to him. 

Wallace squatted down at Merlin’s side.

“I take it you two know her,” he said in a hushed voice. “Guinevere? You don’t mean . . .?”

Arthur brought his attention back to Gwen. She was still unconscious. As he considered trying something to wake her up, Wallace ordered everyone to clear the room. 

Once the last of the footsteps faded, Merlin said tensely, “Arthur, look at me.” Arthur did, reluctantly. “We have to get her to the flat.”

 _The flat_. Merlin never referred to it as _home_. Perhaps he’d learned over time not to put such a connotation to a place. For him, all homes were fleeting.

Arthur didn’t need to be told twice. He wanted to get Gwen out of such a dirty, unwelcoming place. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being prodded by Wallace’s associates.

Immediately, he scooped her fully into his arms and heaved to his feet. Merlin strained his neck to keep Arthur’s gaze. He didn’t seem surprised by Arthur’s urgency, but there was something else dulling his eyes. It was some emotion too big to feel at that moment, so Merlin buried it. Arthur wondered if it would ever be allowed out of its cage.

“Wait, your flat? Hold on. She should get to a hospital,” Wallace urged as both he and Merlin stood.

“Yeah, we’ll get her there,” Merlin answered dismissively as he searched the basement for another exit. There was a grate that led to the street at the far, shadowy edge of the room. Arthur spotted it after Merlin had nodded towards it, and he started in that direction.

“Bullshit, you will,” Wallace groaned.

Merlin rounded on him, but his tone was patient as he explained, “Taking her to hospital would only complicate things. There are no records of her in the system. She’s better off with us—and probably safer.”

Gwen was starting to get heavier in Arthur’s arms. Arthur felt like she could slip at any moment. It was a combination of that and Merlin’s words that caused Arthur to grip her tighter. _Safer_. What did Merlin think she needed protection from? Mordred? Arthur burned hot. He wouldn’t let him or anything else lay a hand on her. 

Wallace sighed in acceptance. He knew he couldn’t stop Merlin even if he tried. He’d always been too lenient. “You’re just gonna walk out with her? What am I supposed to tell everyone else?”

Merlin shrugged and pulled a face. “Make something up.”

“Mhm. Always up to me to save your ass.”

“Thank you, Wallace.”

Merlin turned again, and Arthur quickly made for the exit. However, Merlin once more forestalled him. “Oh, we’ll need to borrow your car,” he told Wallace.

Wallace gaped as though the request was a step too far. “My _what_? No way!”

“We took the bike over. It can’t transport three people, much less when one of them is unconscious!” Merlin argued. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys to his motorbike. “Take these. Come round tomorrow morning and we’ll trade back.”

Wallace grumbled in annoyance, but he caught the keys when Merlin tossed them. “Fine. You owe me.” He began patting his pockets down for his own keys, but couldn’t seem to find them.

Merlin brandished them, making the metal clink as it dangled. Wallace blinked, and then gave a derisive little laugh. 

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin huffed. He cast Gwen another swift, cautious look, no matter how he tried to hide it. Arthur saw it anyway. He hated it. He’d learnt to trust Merlin’s instincts recently, but this time he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not when it involved Gwen. 

He pushed Merlin from his mind, and focused on getting Gwen to safety.

 

///

 

They set Gwen down on the sofa and waited for nearly an hour for her to wake up. Arthur paced the entire time like a caged animal. Frequently, he would take in a breath like he was about to say something, but then quickly stopped himself. 

Merlin sat on the chair patiently, his hands on his knees as he watched Gwen. He’d taken her to the flat and made her comfortable because he knew Arthur wouldn’t stand for anything else, but Merlin was happy for the downtime now.

He tried to fathom her out. Why was she there? Was it really Gwen? The last time he’d seen her, she’d been old and crippled. She’d been dead. If it really was her, why was she as young as the day he’d met her? Why was she alive?

His mind turned suspiciously, always coming back to Mordred. If this was his doing, it could have been an illusion of some kind. She could have been a Shade, a shadow of what she once was, brought back to destroy Arthur. Maybe this was part of Mordred’s plan. 

Had the man in the footage been a Shade, too? Was he from Camelot?

Maybe Merlin just wanted to believe that. Because if this really was Gwen, if she really was back, then destiny meant for it to be. She was destined to be the Once and Future Queen. And that meant . . .

Finally, Arthur’s patience ran out. He barked at Merlin to wake her up. Merlin decided to oblige. He wasn’t going to get far thinking of hypothetical situations. There was only one way to find out if it was really Gwen. Whatever the answer was, he’d deal with its implications. 

Steadying himself for whatever came next, Merlin hovered a hand over her forehead, but he dared not touch. The last time he had, it wasn’t to wake her up. His eyes flashed gold. He backed away to the other side of the sofa, out of sight, to let Arthur kneel beside Gwen. 

Soon, she stirred. It was a groggy grunt at first, and some tensing muscles in her brow. Then, her eyes fluttered opened.

After a moment, she said slowly, weakly, “Arthur? It can’t be.”

Merlin watched her reach out a stroke his cheek with the gentle tips of her knuckles. He titled his head into the touch. Merlin swallowed hard, fighting back the constriction that had started to bloom in his chest since they’d found her.

“It’s me,” Arthur answered. His eyes were glistening and red-rimmed.

Gwen sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He collapsed into her, holding her tight at the waist and bringing her in closer to him. His eyes were closed. His nose and lips were buried into her neck and hair as he breathed her in.

Merlin looked away. For privacy. Their privacy. His own privacy.

“You cannot be here!” Gwen said frantically, as though she’d just remembered something. She broke the hug, but kept her palms resting on Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur’s hands were still around her sides.

His brows knitted together in perplexity.

“Camelot needs you!” Gwen told him quickly. “It is in danger of being captured. Merlin was certain you’d return to save it. Arthur, he waits for you.”

 _Oh_ , Merlin realised. Gwen thought she was dead. She thought she was in the afterlife, and her husband was the first face there to greet her.

Arthur’s gaze flickered behind her, up to Merlin. Merlin held it for a pause, but said nothing to reveal himself. Slowly, Gwen looked over his shoulder at him. 

“Merlin?” she breathed in disbelief. There was a lot of that going around.

Merlin caught her eyes, as big and brown as they’d always been. He remembered the serving girl who introduced herself to him, standing too close despite the rotten tomatoes being hurled at his face. He thought of the ruler he watched her become—steadfast, kind, wise, loved. She’d been every bit a queen.

She still was.

The woman before him was Gwen. There was no question about it. He was torn between joy at seeing his most valued friend, and self-hatred for wishing it hadn’t been her. 

“I don’t understand,” said Gwen, shaking her head in frustration.

Merlin walked around the sofa and knelt down next to Arthur so she wouldn’t have to strain herself.

“It’s good to have you back,” he told her, and realised the smile stretching his cheeks was genuine.

“Back?” 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” 

She contorted her features in thought, reaching back. “The Saxons were invading Camelot. I told you to leave the city. That is all.”

Merlin felt Arthur’s eyes on him. He didn’t return the look. It was easier that way. He’d already told Arthur of Camelot’s fall, but he’d made it sound so technical as he did so. He’d made it sound like a history lesson. He couldn’t allow himself to let emotion in, because every time he thought back to that day, he was crippled with the sensation of failure.

He’d failed Arthur. Again. He let Arthur die and then he let his kingdom fall to ruin. He let it become forgotten, to be made into a fairytale. The day Camelot fell was the day Arthur truly died. 

Now, it was hard to be objective. Gwen had been there on that day, too, and it was much fresher in her mind. Merlin couldn’t help but to be empathetic as so many memories of that day flooded back. He often wished he could forget them, as he had forgotten so much else. He never could. The more he tried to, the more he remembered. 

“You died,” Merlin told her, not knowing how to put it gently. 

She jerked her head back in surprise. “As I was speaking to you?”

Merlin’s stomach flopped. His throat closed and his eyes began to sting. He couldn’t look at her.

“Merlin?” Arthur whispered. He left his question unspoken. He already knew its answer. Merlin could feel it in the weight of Arthur’s eyes on him, and how that weight shifted as it searched his profile. Arthur probably hated him in that moment.

Merlin sniffled quickly, just to get it over with, and blinked the hot tears from his eyes. “You’ve been dead a long time,” he said thickly, trying to power through.

She breathed out something heavy. She asked, “And Camelot?”

“Gone.” Arthur had answered. He sounded like he was still mourning, and he’d never stop.

Merlin tried to smile comfortingly. It twisted into more of a grimace. “You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

All things considered, Gwen took it a lot better than Arthur had. For the first few days after his return, Arthur had been convinced that he was under some sort of spell and he demanded Merlin lift it. That ended in lots of priceless artefacts, and some glassware, being broken after they’d been chucked at Merlin’s head in anger. Arthur had acted out quite a bit at first, a bit like a petulant child who wasn’t allowed sweets before dinner. Merlin had tried to be patient with him. Eventually, Arthur stopped being spooked, and he listened to reason. 

Arthur had come a long way since then. Merlin supposed it could have been a lot worse.

Gwen, on the other hand, barely spoke as Merlin tried to explain her new circumstances. She gave him her full attention, chin held high and eyes sparkling with waves of understanding, anxiety, disbelief, pain, and acceptance. Mostly, she seemed shell-shocked, like she could convince herself she was dreaming if only no one pinched her. She wouldn’t, of course. Gwen had always been too practical.

She asked questions every now and again, and either nodded or remained silent off the answer. 

Arthur wasn’t much help. He let Merlin do all the talking. He remained reserved, and kept his hand over Gwen’s on the sofa cushion in what must have been comfort. Merlin pointedly did not look at it for fear he’d lose his train of thought. It wasn’t the time for his petty emotions. It was time to focus on Gwen. 

However, he found himself floundering at points. He’d spent centuries trying to find the best string of words to break the news to Arthur that Camelot was gone and everyone they loved was dead and buried. That this was the future. That destiny had brought him back.

He’d try to come up with different scenarios of how Arthur might react, and what Merlin would say to placate him. In reality, Merlin had to wing it, because—let’s face it—there’s no good way of telling someone about their own death and then providing a brief outline of the thousand-plus years they’d missed. There were no self-help books written on it. No seminars or tapes. No handbooks.

But, at least, with Arthur, Merlin had the skeleton of a strategy. Gwen was a completely different animal, and Merlin hadn’t planned on giving this speech twice.

There was also the fact that Merlin had no idea why Gwen had returned, or how Mordred pulled it off. With Arthur, there was a reason, a greater purpose. With Gwen, there were only questions.

After a little over an hour, Merlin had run out of steam, Arthur looked exhausted, and Gwen seemed overwhelmed as she attempted to work through all the information and emotion. Merlin made up the bedroom in the flat across the hall for her before going to his kitchen and putting on the kettle.

The night hung around him like a weight. He stood leaning against the island counter, watching the blue gas flame from the stove lick around the ceramic kettle. In the neighbouring flat, Merlin heard murmurs through the wall as Gwen and Arthur spoke. Momentarily, he entertained the thought of enhancing his hearing to magically eavesdrop. He thought better of it. It was a private conversation, and none of his business, despite the choked sensation in his throat.

Not long after, Arthur emerged into the flat and closed the door softly behind him. Merlin had never seen him be so gentle with anything before.

“She’s resting. I doubt she’ll be able to sleep tonight,” Arthur reported as he padded towards the kitchen.

Merlin’s lips pulled slightly as he recalled, “You hardly slept for a month after you’d gotten back.”

“Yes, well, I _had_ been sleeping for over a thousand years.”

“But you cut into my schedule. I was ready to throw your arse back into Avalon if you didn’t give me some peace and quiet.”

Merlin thought back to those first few weeks. They were simultaneously the best and worst weeks of his life. They were hectic and chaotic, and Merlin had come to his wits end by nearly every evening. Whenever they went into town, he was constantly losing Arthur, who’d wander off and never fail to give Merlin a heart attack in thinking he was gone forever—or worse, hadn’t been there in the first place and Merlin had gone mad (again). 

He was perpetually correcting Arthur’s twenty-first century etiquette in public. (“No, Arthur, you cannot duel that man in the streets for cutting you in the queue,” or, “For the last time, automatic doors aren’t magic,” or, “Stop walking into doors! Not all of them are automatic!”)

More often than not, Arthur would snap at Merlin for coddling him. It was a rage born of frustration and sorrow, like a fish thrashing out of water or a bear backed into a corner. Merlin tried to give Arthur time alone to adjust and freedom to learn things for himself. It started with telling Arthur to make his own dinner and dress himself, as Merlin wasn’t his servant anymore. However, even still, Merlin often found himself toeing the line of that familiar role.

Arthur was a terrible student.

But it was, in fact, Arthur. Back in the world. Back with Merlin. It was the thing Merlin had waited for his entire life, the thing he never allowed himself to dream about but built up expectations for anyway. He relearned all of Arthur’s mannerisms and quirks, his tempers, his likes and dislikes. Merlin had forgotten things he hadn’t realised, and remembered things he thought he’d lost. 

Arthur’s presence brought back memories of brighter days, of open fields and the summer breeze on top of Camelot’s battlements, of a view for miles that might have been the entire world. It had been Arthur’s world, anyway, and Arthur had been Merlin’s. 

Really, it took no time at all for Merlin to fall back in love with Arthur—the real thing, not just a fantasy of old.

It was six months after his return before Arthur kissed him. They’d spent all that time becoming reacquainted, testing the waters of what they meant to each other, dancing around the things said in their final days together in the old world. Every day, Arthur asked a question about Merlin’s magic, and how he had used it, and Merlin answered to the best of his memory. He tried not to keep anything from Arthur anymore. Merlin tried to look at this as a fresh start.

And a fresh start it had been. Merlin remembered what it was like to have a friend again, and then he found out what it meant to be in acknowledged, reciprocated love. Merlin and Arthur had gotten lost in each other. Two outsiders in a cold world, with nothing but each other.

Through rose-tinted glasses, that notion always seemed romantic. Now, Merlin wondered if it was the only reason Arthur had fallen for him in the first place. Merlin was his only option, the only familiar thing in a strange world, the single reminder of home. 

God, had Merlin taken advantage of him? Now that Gwen was with them, would Arthur choose her instead? Merlin had the sinking feeling he would.

He tried to think of the days before Arthur’s death. He tried to tell himself that Arthur’s love for him was true, and he’d known it since that day. But that had been such a long time ago, and in that moment its memory no longer had the same impact. Perhaps Merlin imposed on it a meaning that wasn’t truly there. It was the thing that had kept Merlin going for so long, but he was now cloudy and unsure of it.

“But she wasn’t asleep,” Arthur asked—or, at least, Merlin thought it was a question.

He shook his head mournfully. “No. She was dead.” A new wave of guilt washed over him, one he thought he’d put to bed ages ago. He knew he’d done the only thing he could, and he’d probably make the same decision again. But that doesn’t mean he ever forgave himself for it. 

Arthur must have picked up on it, because he leaned in closer and said, “What you did, Merlin—I don’t blame you. And I know she doesn’t, either. You had no choice.” 

Merlin had tried to convince himself of that many times. He’d always fallen short of believing it.

“If I had been in your position, I would have done the same.”

Merlin forced a low-wattage smile. “No. You would have found a way to save her.” He would have found a way to save everyone.

Arthur frowned, though somewhere inside him, Merlin’s faith in him must have sprouted a warm sensation, even if he thought the faith misplaced. “Did you do what you thought was right at the time?”

He made it sound so simple. Like right and wrong were so easily distinguishable. Perhaps, for Arthur, they always had been. Merlin never had that luxury.

“Yes,” he answered honestly. “That’s the problem, Arthur. Everything that happened was because I had choices, and every time I chose wrong. I listened to my heart. I didn’t think.” Not of the consequences. Not of anything. He should have listened to Gaius and Kilgharrah more, but he was young, which meant he thought he knew everything.

Arthur stood upright, ramrod straight and alert. “So, you’re saying you don’t listen to your heart anymore?” It must have been so strange for Arthur, who lived his life by honour and compassion. So often in his early days as king, he’d ignore what he thought was right. Both Merlin and Gwen often advised him _do what your heart is telling you_. Merlin must have seemed like a hypocrite to him.

“It’s what’s best,” Merlin countered with finality. He didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. It was too heavy for an already heavy day.

Luckily, he was saved. The teakettle whistled, and Merlin shut it off before pouring the steaming water into three mugs prepared with chamomile. “This should help her relax,” he told Arthur, pushing two mugs towards him on the counter. “And you.”

 _And me_ , Merlin hoped, but he doubted it.

He stared into his own mug, watching his upside down reflection in the browning liquid. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced in a soft tone. He glanced up at the dark circles bruising Arthur’s eyes. “You should, too.”

Arthur shook his head and looked down. “I’m not tired. I think I’ll stay up a little longer.”

Merlin tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He’d read between the lines of what Arthur said. “You mean, you don’t know whose bed to sleep in tonight,” he said bitterly, staring down at his fingers as they cradled the mug between them. The heat of the water was the only warmth he felt in him. “Mine, or your wife’s.” 

And there it was. They had to breech the topic at some point. Perhaps now, so late, hadn’t been the right time. Merlin regretted it instantly. 

Arthur’s eyes snapped up, wounded and reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. “That’s not fair,” he said, stating it as fact instead of a whine. 

Merlin was ashamed. It had been an ugly thing to say, brought about by jealousy or despair or fear—or a mixture of all three. The attack had been unprovoked, on both Arthur and Gwen. They were his friends, and he wanted them to be happy, whatever that meant. He couldn’t let his insecurities get in the way.

Before, in another life, Merlin had been happy for them, because they were happy together. They were a good pair, complimenting each other perfectly, and they were good for the kingdom. They deserved each other. Merlin was proud of them, he rooted for them, he stayed out of the way of their love, even if it hurt. Besides, he never imagined his feelings for Arthur were reciprocated. Most of the time, he denied his own emotions, calling them devotion and loyalty—anything but love. It wasn’t until it was too late for them did he learn otherwise.

But things were different now. Merlin had spent his whole life thinking, when Arthur returned, it would be just the two of them. He hadn’t counted on anyone else, especially Gwen. He always thought he and Arthur would, more or less, pick up where they left off in those final days—open and honest and completely understanding of each other.

They loved each other. It was about time they got a chance to be _in_ love.

But it seemed that time had been fleeting. Gwen was back. Merlin would have to let go of the thing he looked forward to the most all his life. He’d been stupid and selfish, and now destiny was reminding him who was boss.

But he supposed having Arthur back, even if Merlin couldn’t have him, was better than nothing. Arthur was the reason for his life. After all this time, Arthur was still Merlin’s world, even if he wasn’t Arthur’s. That would never change. And that would have to be enough.

“I know. I’m—,” Merlin began, not knowing how to finish it. He rubbed his eyes to give an excuse for their redness. “You should go be with her.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. He looked like he was about to protest, but there would be no heart in it.

“She needs you. She’s got a lot to process, and you know what that’s like,” Merlin continued. “Help her. I wouldn’t know how.”

Arthur shrugged sheepishly. “You did just fine with me.”

“You still know better than I do.” Merlin wanted to move away, to lock himself in his bedroom and slip into a welcomed unconsciousness. He remained, watching the steam drift up from the cups. The tea was steeped by now, and it was probably getting cold.

Merlin looked down at the band on his finger. “Are you going to tell her?” he asked, not sure he wanted the answer. His stomach did a somersault.

Arthur breathed out a thoughtful sigh. “Not tonight,” he decided. Merlin tensed his jaw to stop it from quavering. “We will. _Soon_. But . . . You’re right, she’s got enough to think about right now. We shouldn’t add to it.”

Merlin nodded, accepting, but he couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

 _It’s starting_. He should have expected nothing less. He could feel the tension hanging in the air; he could hear the unspoken words in the silence. The space between them felt like a crater.

Like ripping off a plaster, he tugged off his ring and held it up in his palm. “We shouldn’t wear these until then,” he said, his voice thicker than he’d intended. “You know how observant she is. She’ll catch on.” 

He hovered his palm closer to Arthur’s chest, urging him to hand over his ring, too.

Merlin prayed Arthur would tell him to stop being an idiot. He prayed Arthur wouldn’t take it off. He found himself holding his breath.

Arthur scoffed, full of emotion. “That seems dishonest,” he said, though he knew Merlin was only trying to spare Gwen’s feelings. A look of realisation flashed on his face. “I’m not wearing my ring for her, either.” 

 _Neither is she_ , Merlin almost said. Gwen had stopped wearing her ring two years after Arthur’s death. She kept it on the mantle in her chamber, but as far as Merlin knew she’d never touched it again. Gwen had probably done it because the reminder was too constant and painful, but it wouldn’t sound that way to Arthur. He wouldn’t understand.

So, Merlin kept the words inside. They were spiteful and bitter.

He reoffered his upturned hand. 

Arthur sighed again. When he pulled off his ring, Merlin’s chest cracked open and spilled out all its contents. But he didn’t make a sound.

“For now,” Arthur emphasized as he placed the ring in Merlin’s hand. It was much heavier than it should have been.

Merlin folded the rings in his fist, nodded, and hummed in what he hoped was a casual manner.

Arthur opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then changed his mind.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” was all Merlin got, even though he knew Arthur wanted to say more. His eyes were dragging up and down Merlin’s features.

Arthur took the two mugs and disappeared from the flat.

Merlin looked down at his own tea, and his stomach churned at the prospect of adding anything to it. He probably wouldn’t be able to swallow the fluid, anyway, so he abandoned the mug in the sink. He didn’t bother to pour it down the drain first.

For a flash, he thought he saw Freya’s face in the liquid. She’d been trying to get his attention since Arthur had returned. At first, he’d been too busy tending to Arthur’s every need to make time for her. Then, somewhere along the line, it turned into active avoidance. He knew she wouldn’t have good news for him, and things had been going so well. He wanted to stave off destiny just a little longer. He’d see her in puddles on the street, in rain droplets running down the windowpane, in the draining shower water pooling around his ankles. 

He’d turned from her every time.

He’d been foolish. He should have talked to her sooner. Perhaps then he could have stopped Mordred before anything bad happened—before people died, before destiny brought Gwen back.

But he couldn’t speak to her now. There was too much emotion in him, and he wouldn’t be able to focus on her words. She’d be back—soon, most likely. She and Balinor had been with Merlin all his life; but it wasn’t until India did he realise it, did he learn to see and listen to them. Like Merlin’s magic, their presence grew stronger since Arthur’s return, since the Gates of Avalon had been opened. 

He clasped his fist tighter around the warm rings and rested it on the counter. He didn’t dare open it, but watched his knuckles turn white. A headache was blooming in his temples. His eyes were burning. As they filled up, he blinked rapidly and shook his head to prevent the tears from falling. 

He crossed into his bedroom and closed the door to block out Arthur and Gwen’s distant mutters. It was no use. The ceilings in the building were too high and the rooms too spacious. Everything echoed.

The dresser was a good enough place as any to keep the rings. He hid them at the bottom of the first drawer, underneath some shirts. He opened his bottle of sleeping pills on top of the dresser and rattled two blue ovals into his palm. They were sluggish in moving down his throat, but he managed to swallow them. 

After changing into his nightclothes, he slipped beneath the covers. The bed was cold around him from disuse, and suddenly much too big for once person. He huddled the blankets around him. As soon as he got comfortable, he realised the light was still on. He couldn’t be bothered to get up, so his eyes yielded to gold and he was suddenly engulfed in unmovable darkness.

The octaves of Arthur and Gwen’s voices were louder in the dark. Their voice patterns carried through the walls and reverberated along the exposed pipelines. Merlin couldn’t hear what they were saying. He didn’t want to.

The pressure behind his eyes strengthened, threatening to pour out. And pour out it did. It started with a few stray tears rolling across the bridge of Merlin’s nose or off the side of his face. He swatted at the moisture, hating it. It hated him, too. It fought for control of his body, until it won, until he was congested and breathless and a wet, shaking, hollow mess.

Until he was asleep.

 

///

 

The next morning, as Merlin stood over the hobs cooking a vaguely egg-like mix that came from a carton, he realised how silly he’d been the night before. He must have been in shock; but, now that it passed, he was overjoyed that Gwen was back. He never thought he’d ever see her again, but he missed her every day.

 _Gwen would know what to say_ , he often thought when the gloom washed over him.

 _Gwen would know what to do_ , he’d think whenever he hit a wall in his search for a prophecy. 

It was more difficult than he’d ever imagined, saying hello to someone he’d let go of centuries before. But there was something that felt right about the three of them being together again, just like old times. It was how things were supposed to be. Neither he nor Arthur could exist without Gwen.

He was so sure of all these things, that is, until the exact moment Gwen walked into the flat carrying two empty tea mugs and wearing a pair of Arthur’s boxer shorts, his t-shirt, and a pair of his socks. She was ever the picture of _the morning after_. 

Merlin white-knuckled the spatula, his body reacting while his mind went suddenly blank. He was hyper aware of the nakedness of his ring finger. Unconsciously, he’d been touching the empty space all morning, forgetting and going to fiddle with the band that wasn’t there. His stomach would lurch like he’d lost it somewhere, and he walked around with the constant sensation that he was forgetting something important.

“Merlin,” Gwen cooed when she spotted him, the kindest of smiles adorning her cheeks. How strange it was, to see that smile again. It used to elicit such warmth in him. “I should have expected to find you awake. Good morning.”

He felt like he was going to vomit. The congealing bright yellow egg-substance in the skillet looked even less appetizing than usual. He forced brightness.

“’Morning. Oh, let me get those!” Gwen had taken the mugs to the sink on the island counter and was currently trying to figure out how to turn on the faucet. She figured it out in no time at all, and Merlin quickly retracted his hands when he realised the water was running.

Gwen was never smug, but she did look proud of herself. “ _Please_ , Merlin, I think I can manage cleaning some dishes.”

He pushed the sponge and the washing up liquid closer to her and left her to it, confidant she’d get the hang of it. With her, there was no point in arguing.

As Merlin returned to the eggs, Gwen said, “Ooh. It smells strange.” He knew she was talking about the water.

“They have to filter out a lot of stuff and pump it with more stuff to make it safe. But I wouldn’t drink anything that doesn’t come from a bottle.”

She was probably considering how strange the world had become when she said, “Arthur’s told me how things have been. They seem . . . I’m certain I’ll get used to it.”

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek. _Of course, she’s staying_ , he scolded himself. _She should stay._

“I’m sure you will.”

He realised the eggs were smoking, and quickly reached for three plates to put them on. 

Their backs turned to each other, Gwen said, “You look well, Merlin.” He assumed she meant for someone who had been alive for as long as he had.

“So do you,” for someone who had been dead for as long as she had.

Archie must have smelt the food, because he took that moment to jump onto the counter in front of Gwen, who was slightly startled. “Who’s this?” she laughed.

Merlin glanced over his shoulder to see her stroking Archie’s back. He purred into it, warming up to her immediately. He liked anyone who gave him attention.

“Archie,” Merlin said, returning to what he was doing. “Well, Archimedes, really.”

“Why Archimedes?” It didn’t sound like she liked the name much, but was too gracious to say so.

“Because I,” Merlin said, “have a great sense of humour.”

Gwen didn’t laugh, as she didn’t get the joke. A punch line was never funny without the set up. Merlin frowned. “Never mind. I thought we could go into the market today and get you whatever you might need.” He pointedly didn’t look at her as he reached for utensils. “Like clothes.” 

“I would like that,” she said, and Merlin heard the sink’s water shut off. “I’d like to see the world for myself, not just hear about it.” She paused. “Where _is_ Arthur, anyway?”

“Shower—Um. Bathing.” He could still hear the water running, as it had been since he’d woken up nearly forty minutes ago. Arthur never seemed to care about how much water he was wasting.

As Merlin turned towards the counter with the plates, Gwen let out a soft laugh. “He’s up early. I thought he’d still be sleeping.”

Merlin almost dropped the plates. Shouldn’t she have known whether Arthur was sleeping? Merlin thought he’d slept in her room, as Arthur never returned to their flat. Merlin would have woken up had Arthur come to bed. 

“You didn’t sleep together?” The question came out entirely wrong. He hadn’t meant to phrase it that way. In fact, he hadn’t meant to say it aloud at all.

“No? I assumed he came here to sleep in his own bed,” she told him, keeping her voice strangely even. Quickly, she grabbed the plates in Merlin’s hands are hurried to add, “These look delicious, Merlin.” She brought them around the counter, where a breakfast table was situated between the kitchen and the windows. Archie hopped off the counter and trotted after her. 

Merlin blinked. Arthur wouldn’t have left Gwen alone. He’d probably slept on the sofa in her flat, sticking close just in case she needed him. But Merlin hadn’t the foggiest as to why they hadn’t shared a bed. Part of him soared, the other part crashed.

Arthur really hadn’t known whose bed to sleep in, so he hadn’t chosen. Somehow, that was worse, because it gave Merlin hope.

Gwen had seated herself at the table. She looked up and around, like she’d suddenly realised something. “Where do _you_ sleep?” she asked. 

Merlin opened his mouth, willing a lie to form. Nothing came out. 

A knock at the opened door saved him. It wasn’t really a knock. It was someone saying the words _knock, knock_. Merlin had never been so happy to see Wallace.

“Was hopin’ I could go a day without seein’ your ugly mug,” Wallace said, stepping into the flat uninvited. He spotted Gwen at the table, and his face suddenly brightened. He pointed at her. “And, hey, not so ugly mug. Guinevere, right?”

Gwen smiled politely, though she seemed a little thrown off, and stood up. She reached over the counter for his hand. “Gwen, please.”

“David Wallace.” He flashed his toothy grin as he clasped her hand. 

Gwen worried at her bottom lip and glanced quickly at Merlin for clues as to who this man was. Merlin wasn’t exactly sure what vibes he was giving off to make her say, “It’s nice to meet one of Merlin’s friends.”

Wallace must have found that amusing. “Whoa! Yeah, I’m sure it would be! Let me know if you find any!”

“What do you want, Wallace?” Merlin butted in before the conversation could develop any further. He tried very hard not to blush, or to accidentally chance upon the look he felt Gwen giving him.

Wallace produced the keys to Merlin’s motorbike. In all the excitement, Merlin had almost forgotten. “Came to return your screaming metal death trap. Parked it out on the curb.” He slammed the keys on the counter. 

Merlin rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly forgotten about his bike. “Right, thanks.” As he reached for Wallace’s car keys, he realised the white noise of running shower water had ceased.

“It’s in the garage,” Merlin said, trading back the keys. He thought Wallace would leave, but the man stood there a little awkwardly, tapping his fingers on the key ring between his hands.

“So, uh, how you holdin’ up, Gwen?” he asked hesitantly, like he was unsure whether or not he was encroaching on forbidden territory. He’d been just as cagey with Arthur, Merlin remembered.

Gwen pressed her lips together and nodded. “Well. Thank you,” she told him. It was probably a lie—the same lie every stranger told the other when asked such a question. She didn’t know Wallace, so she couldn’t know how genuinely concerned he was.

“Right,” Wallace said, taking it in stride. Merlin wasn’t sure if he’d been expecting a real answer.

There was a beat of silence, heavy and uncomfortable. Gwen eventually broke it by asking, “So, how do you know each other?”

Wallace relaxed now that he was back on familiar ground.

“I solve crimes and he gets the credit for it,” Merlin quickly said before Wallace could answer.

“Yeah, well, my name looks better in the papers.”

Something dawned on Gwen. “Of course! Arthur told me a little about what you do. Merlin, I didn’t realise you had any close . . .” She fumbled a bit, not wanting to use the word _friend_ again but not knowing what else to call it.

“Colleagues,” Merlin supplied.

Wallace shuffled a little. He hastened to add, “Yeah, well, that’s not how we actually met. I’m the guy who got this one a job.” He pointed his thumb at Merlin, but didn’t break eye contact with Gwen. “He used to stalk my crime scenes.”

At once, Merlin let out a noise of protest. In the years before Arthur’s return, Merlin kept ever vigilant. The predicted war had come and gone, and there was still no sign of Arthur. More than ever, Merlin was determined to figure out what would bring him back, so he kept close to the authorities. He wanted to know everything they weren’t telling the public. “I did not! I stole a police radio, and you happened to get all the best crime scenes.” He explained to Gwen, “Wallace’s uncle is the boss.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but Wallace inadvertently cut her off. “So, he was a stalker _and_ a thief. I almost put a restrainin’ order on him. Anyway, one week, I was working this case, right? Some low-life killed his girlfriend, but we didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. After work, I was walkin’ home when the perp comes out of nowhere. Bam! Stabs me right here.” He pointed to his lower stomach. “Guy runs off; I’m laying there bleedin’ out.”

Gwen cocked her head. She must have been wondering if this were typical small talk in this day an age. It was for Wallace, anyway.

“And then this one shows up—,” he pointed again to Merlin. Merlin tried not to roll his eyes. “Heals me with his magic. And, not any of that chantin’, sacrifice a goat crap. It was instant. I’d never seen anythin’ like it! I mean, his friggin’ eyes . . . I’m sure you know how it is. Anyway, I’d be dead if not for him.”

Now, Gwen was favouring Merlin with a more familiar look. Merlin didn’t look at that dead-on, either.

Wallace shrugged, drawing back the attention of the room. “So, I gave him a job—something low-key so he didn’t have to stalk us anymore.”

“You’re forgetting the part when you ran away screaming,” Merlin reminded him. In fact, Wallace had skipped a lot of the in between. There was a week in which Merlin tried to contact him again. He feared Wallace would tell others about his magic. Magic wasn’t technically outlawed in London, but everyone who practiced some form of it was on a watch list. Merlin had tried very hard to stay off of it, and he could have ruined that by saving Wallace.

Then, one day, Wallace appeared at his door and demanded to know what kind of magician he was. Merlin had no idea how Wallace had found where he lived, which was probably the reason he told him everything. Merlin needed a man like Wallace on his side. Wallace had important connections, and he knew things. When he didn’t know them, he was damn good at finding them out.

And Wallace had believed Merlin. He’d taken a while to digest it all, but he came around eventually. And he kept Merlin’s secret.

“Yeah, whatever,” Wallace groaned. “What was that, now? ‘Bout five years ago?”

Five years. For Merlin, it was no time at all, but the last two and a half had been a lifetime. Yet, they weren’t nearly enough. 

The bathroom door opened, and Arthur came into the room. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt, but his feet were still bare and implanting damp prints on the wooden floor. He was drying his hair with a towel. He froze when he caught sight of the three of them.

“Wallace. I wasn’t expecting—.”

Wallace jingled his keys. “Wasn’t stayin’. Police work. Speakin’ of.” He rounded on Merlin, who begrudgingly realised he was about to get work, too. “I need that autopsy for Mr. Saylor.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Merlin reminded him.

“That was insensitive. Get it done.”

Merlin had promised Gwen a trip into town, but he needed to go the station, anyway. “Tonight. You can be there, too. I need to get into the system’s records.”

“For?”

He nodded to Gwen. “She needs to eat, doesn’t she? The rations we get won’t be enough for three, and she can’t get her own until she’s a recognised citizen of London.” Forging a lifetime’s worth of records was easy. Merlin had championed it long ago. He’d done it many times for himself, and once for Arthur. Wallace had helped with that one, so he was familiar with the drill.

“That can’t be legal,” Gwen reproved.

“It isn’t,” Arthur answered, moving to stand near the counter. He hovered a little, not knowing where to place himself. Usually, he sat on one of the barstools, where Gwen was standing. He kept his distance, unsuccessful in trying to make it look casual. For a politician, Arthur always did have a terrible poker face. Merlin tried not to notice his own heart hammering.

Wallace’s eyes flashed between the three of them. When he spoke again, he sounded as though he was considering something. “ _Riiight_ . . . Well, he _did_ tell a police officer he was about to commit a crime, so I guess I can permit it.” He looked at Merlin, demanding his focus. Merlin reluctantly gave it to him. “See you tonight.”

It didn’t sound like _see you tonight_. It sounded like _she doesn’t know about you two, does she?_  

Merlin was sure he’d hear all about it later.

“You won’t stay for breakfast?” Gwen asked. Merlin knew her well enough to know she was only being polite, but she sounded genuine.

“Nah. Like I said, police work. And fake eggs make me puke.” With another large grin, Wallace was gone.

When they were all sure he was out of earshot, Gwen retook her place at the table and said, “Well, he was certainly . . .”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “He _is_ certainly.” He looked at the three plates on the table, and then to Merlin. “Breakfast. Good.”

When Arthur started for the table, Merlin didn’t follow. It felt wrong, suddenly, to sit with them while they ate. He’d never eaten with the two of them before. He’d served them meals plenty of times, always waiting around to refill a goblet or to clean up when they were done. But he never joined them.

He looked back on all their days together—the three of them, the old times. Very quickly, it didn’t feel like it was, in fact, the three of them. It was the two of them, plus Merlin.

He heard Arthur pull a chair out, and then pause. “Merlin?”

Merlin snapped his gaze up. Both Arthur and Gwen were starring at him in perplexity. 

Merlin had suddenly lost his appetite.

“I—,” he started. He muttered the first thing that popped into his head: “I’m going to put the bike in the garage." 

He snatched the keys and got out of there as quickly as he possibly could.

 

///

 

For Gwen, there were only three truly strange things about this new world.

She took everything in stride. She was willing to learn, and she would let herself make mistakes and ask questions to do so. Merlin and Arthur answered her questions when she presented them. Most of the time, their answers made no sense, and it made her feel as though she were a mouse that was suddenly expected to learn to speak English; but she did her best to understand. 

Merlin was careful to explain everything he did before he did it, just so she had fair warning. Gwen thought maybe he’d done the same for Arthur, and she was grateful he was taking to time to teach her, too.

For example, Merlin explained they’d be taking a car into town. Cars, at it seemed, were turned on by beating the so-called steering wheel as hard as you were possibly able with your fists while shouting a string of swear words. Their backseats were also very cramped and they smelt vaguely of something burning. They were loud and bumpy and went so fast that Gwen had to hold on to something to prevent from jerking around.

And it turned out, not many people had them. She only saw a handful of these cars on the road, and wondered if all of them made their passengers nauseous.

Gwen peered out the window as they drove, listening to something called a _cassette tape_ in the _stereo_ , which produced very angry-sounding music by some mystery. (She had asked Merlin how sound was captured onto the tapes, but he didn’t seem to have the answer. Still, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in ignorant bliss to the rhythm of _give it away give it away give it away now_ , and Arthur didn’t so much as flinch at the lewd words.)

The city they drove through was completely foreign to her. Towers rose up high, some of them shiny and made completely of glass, which Gwen found impractical. A lot of the buildings had planks over the doors and windows and posted signs reading _condemned_ or _keep out_. Others were vandalised with designs and cartoonish words painted in a rainbow of colours. Others were charred husks with caved in roofs and broken windows.

Gwen saw crumbled overpasses and useless bridges with chunks missing from the middle. There were few signs of nature anywhere, save for when they passed an overgrown park with barren trees.

Swarms of people were everywhere, which reminded Gwen of Camelot’s lower town, only slightly less chaotic. Everyone on the road seemed to take their cues from multicoloured lights, which pedestrians didn’t appear required to obey because they frequently walked into oncoming carriages.

Gwen assumed she would have to learn these rules, but she wasn’t bothered by that fact. It was simply a different culture, foreign but manageable. She had never travelled abroad, something which she often regretted, but she had read much about the Greeks and Romans, the Franks, the Byzantines, and their like. She’d even learned much of the Saxon’s customs. She imagined the mixture of confusion, fright, and excitement she was currently experiencing was akin to travelling abroad. It was overwhelming, but she would find her bearings.

It wasn’t the world that was shocked her. In fact, she’d been expecting much worse after some of claims Arthur made. She’d imagined the city to be much more destitute and hopeless, with bodies on the street and fires raging at every turn. When, in fact, the people of London seemed quite content to get on with their lives, like they weren’t bothered by their surroundings—or by how much colder the air was here than it was in Camelot, or how much blacker the clouds were.

The only aspect that truly bothered Gwen was the year itself. The number of it. Two-thousand-and-sixteen. It did not seem real. To think such a year existed, and that she was in it, shrouded her in a dreamlike haze that she couldn’t shake. It was hard to grasp just how much time she’d missed, and how the world became the way it was now. Two-thousand-and-sixteen was so far from everything she knew—far enough to turn her familiar world into nothing but a bedtime story. 

How had humanity survived such a great expanse of time? How was the earth still turning, when everything should have been long dead by such a far-off year?

She could not wrap her head around it.

But that wasn’t the strangest thing about the new world. It wasn’t even in her top three.

The first was her own reflection. When she’d first seen it, the air had been knocked from her. It was the face she’d worn most of her life, but it felt strangely like a mask. She surprised herself all over again whenever she touched her face, smooth and soft. She could not settle into her own bones. She was too old for her skin, too weary for her body.

Gwen had never been bitter or vain about aging. She never feared it. In fact, she knew how lucky she had been for growing old while so many in her time died young due to war, sickness, or some other misfortune. Perhaps that’s why she now felt somewhat guilty. Not only was she allowed to grow old, but she was also given a second chance at youth. It wasn’t natural.

But how could she waste the opportunity?

She did not know why she was resurrected, or made young again, but she wouldn’t waste her time on such meaningless existential questions. She wasn’t a philosopher. She was a queen, which required action. If the world really was as bad as Arthur said, youth was more suited to enact change and provide help, especially when paired with the wisdom of age. Gwen would certainly not waste it.

The second and third items on Gwen’s list of strange and unusual sat in the car in front of her. Merlin and Arthur, both individually and together. They were much harder to come to terms with than the mystery of her youth, because Gwen hadn’t the same control over their thoughts as she had of her own. 

After living for so long, Gwen hadn’t expected Merlin to be the same, but she hadn’t expected him to be so different, either. He had probably changed so many times that Gwen wondered if it was appropriate to call him by the same name as the man she’d once known. But that man was still in there somewhere, inhabiting the body but buried deep. Gwen saw traces of him, glimpses only. What she hadn’t seen, not even once, was Merlin smile in earnest. He’d been closed off before, but never like this. Gwen longed to draw the old Merlin out.

Arthur was, well, much the same in that he wore his emotions on his sleeve. However, anxiety was the only emotion he’d been giving off since the previous night. Gwen had not seen such complete and utter awkwardness in him since before they courted. There used to be such an ease between them, which wasn’t the case anymore. The night before, there had been no comfortable silences. Arthur filled the gaps with stumbling sentences, but never about his own personal thoughts or troubles from the past two and a half years. It made Gwen flustered, and she also found herself trying to fill the quiet gaps.

Every line of Arthur was rigid and unsettled. He never touched her, save for fleeting grazes on the arm when he tried to comfort her. It was like Gwen was speaking to a stranger.

Maybe that’s all they were now, strangers. Two people who had once known each other very well, but had forgotten.

She thought it might have been her fault. She had lived a full life without Arthur, more years without him than she had with him. Eventually, he became a shadow of the past, a ghost from long ago. She never stopped missing him, but her love for him became only memory. The loss of him hurt less and less with every year gone by.

Gwen wasn’t certain exactly how he fit into her life anymore, or who he was to her. She wasn’t sure if she still loved a man she had said goodbye to so long ago. Perhaps Arthur had the same questions, and they were the source of his evasiveness.

She wondered if they had to settle back into each other, and if it would take effort. She was willing to put in the work. If her youth was an opportunity, so was this. They had been so happy together, once upon a time. They could live the life they were meant to have together, at last. She wanted to at least give it a try. She didn’t want him slip away again. 

And then there was Merlin and Arthur together. There was something between them, something unspoken. Gwen couldn’t pinpoint it exactly; it was more of a vibe. There had always been that _something_ between them, but never so obvious. The air was suffocating with what Gwen could only describe as tension.

Perhaps she was only imagining things, because the only concrete evidence she had to support her theory was this: They never looked at each other, not even a glance out of the corners of their eyes. She’d only noticed it because, from what she remembered, they used to look at each other for far too long. They were always in the middle of a wordless conversation, and Gwen wasn’t certain they even knew what they were trying to tell each other.

Now, it seemed they had drifted apart. It was possible Merlin’s magic was the reason. Arthur knew about it now, and though he had his moments of doubt, he had always been stubborn in holding on to his father’s beliefs. That could have held consequences for their friendship. Because of it, they may not have been as close as they once were. 

Her eyes flickered between the seats, to where Merlin’s hand was resting on the gearshift. His grip was light, always ready to move away. Arthur seemed to be putting as much space between them as he could without jumping out of the car. It felt very staged, like they were both too aware of their own bodies and worried they might accidentally touch each other.

Merlin jerked the wheel as he rounded a bend, knocking Gwen out of her thoughts as she struggled to remain upright. Her breakfast sloshed in her stomach, and she was pretty sure she’d turned green.

However, in the motion, Arthur’s hand had flown to grasp Merlin’s wrist almost by reflex. The moment they realised it, they both drew away like they’d touched fire.

“For god’s sake, Merlin, slow down!” Arthur barked. “ _Some_ of us in this car can die!”

Gwen met Merlin’s eyes when he glanced back at her in the rear view mirror. He looked mildly amused, as he always did whenever Arthur scolded him. It was another glimpse of her old friend that Gwen was suddenly determined to exhume.

The marketplace was inside a giant warehouse with white tiled floors and a ceiling made of glass, whose panels were fitted together with elaborate iron designs. Two mean-looking security guards were standing at the entrance doors, and Gwen regarded them briefly before turning her gaze up towards the ceiling. It must have been glinting and beautiful when the sun lit up the room, so it was a shame the sky above was so dark.

She looked at the expanse before her. It was a room filled to the brim with noise, activity, and sweet and savoury scents. Carts and wagons were lined up in rows, each of them offering a surplus of items both familiar and alien to Gwen. They walked through the aisles, often having to dodge fellow shoppers, and were beckoned by the merchants. 

Many of the carts sold various assortments of jewellery, some with bracelets crafted from iron and copper, some with necklaces with colourful stones, and others with earrings plated with gold. There were delicate glass-blown trinkets, pens and leather bound journals, used novels and outdated encyclopaedias, and freshly baked breads and sweets. Someone was selling hand-kitted scarves and hats, but most of the gloves were missing the fingers, which was apparently a trend that Gwen immediately found silly. 

There were performers, too. Some of them played music or juggled, and people tossed coins into open instrument cases or hats to show their appreciation. A woman was painting children’s faces to resemble animals, and the man in the booth next to her was currently drawing an amusing caricature of a couple. 

They passed a few storefronts along the walls, but many of them were vacant and dark.

All in all, Gwen was reminded of the marketplaces and bizarres she’d been to in Mercia, Nemeth, and even in Camelot. Much of the items were the same, and the rules of haggling hadn’t changed from what Gwen overheard. 

She stopped at a few carts to browse their items, or when curiosity got the better of her when something was unfamiliar. She paused to watch some of the performances. Merlin stayed in stride with her most of the time, but Arthur, while sticking close, trudged behind them. Often, she looked over her shoulder, trying to engage him in conversation or get him to walk next to her. Sometimes, it worked, but not for long. After awhile, she gave up. 

At one point, Merlin pulled her towards a woman selling round, dark-coloured sweets. “You _have_ to try these,” he’d exclaimed, and bought a small white paper bag full of them. He called them chocolates, and they were sweet but bitter, smooth but chalky at the same time. They were delicious! Gwen understood why he was so eager for her to try them. She thought, perhaps she could not only get used to this new world, but enjoy it. 

Shortly after that, Arthur suddenly announced, “I have to look for something. I’ll catch you up.” Before either of them could protest, he disappeared into the mix of shoppers. Gwen bit her lip until he was out of sight. Whatever errand Arthur had to run, surely they could have gone together. She tried not to let it faze her. If Arthur insisted on being alone, she would dismiss the thought of joining him.

After all, he had to put some effort into their reunion, too. She wouldn’t force their relationship to be what it once was. In time, she tried to convince herself, it would naturally fall back together. But, as she watched him go, _convincing herself_ was a difficult task.

She forced cheerfulness and kept on through the market, Merlin at her side. However, he was much more distracted than he had been before, which made him a terrible conversationalist. Before Arthur had left, Merlin had carried most of the conversation. He told Gwen about the part of London they were in, the different uses for this building over the years, and showed her a few items she had never seen before.

Often, Gwen got the distinct impression that he was trying to fill the silence with small talk, leaving no room for personal discussion. She’d tried a few times, but Merlin had become very good at changing topics he wished to avoid and dressing up the mundane as fascinating. It was a better sleight of hand trick than any of the market’s performers did, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

However, Gwen preferred that to what Merlin was doing now: answering in hums that proved he wasn’t really listening, when he answered at all. As they walked, he glanced all around and stood on his toes to look over people’s heads, like he was trying to spot Arthur. Trying to keep an eye on him. He never managed to actually find him amongst the masses. While Gwen wondered where Arthur had gotten to, Merlin worried. 

They came upon a vendor selling clothes, and Merlin waited in the aisle as Gwen shoved through the tight labyrinth. She skimmed through the hanging racks, touching all the materials and picking up any that struck her. However, she was always dissatisfied and ended up putting them back.

Over a rack of blouses, there was a handwritten sign proclaiming, _Buy two, get one half price_! But the blouses were so cropped that, when she held three of them together, they made one article by her standards. She’d observed some of the fashion trends of the modern day, and very few of them were to her liking. Most of them were quite revealing, and she wasn’t certain she’d be comfortable in such clothing. She’d rather stay in her tunic and fur.

Besides, as she browsed, she found the articles to be of poor quality. The materials she wasn’t used to felt like crumpled parchment, and those she did recognise were very thin. The clothes looked like they could come apart at the seams at any moment.

None of them would do. She would hate to waste money on something so cut-rate, especially when she could do better herself. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she met Merlin back in the aisle.

“You didn’t find anything?” he asked, noticing her empty-handed.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “There was nothing in there for me.”

Merlin seemed a little panicked. He looking around wildly for a moment and assured her, “That’s okay! I’m sure there’s another clothes vendor somewhere around here.”

She held her palms up to stop him from going anywhere. “Actually, Merlin, I saw a merchant selling fabrics a few aisles back. Perhaps we can find him again? I can fashion them together myself.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, pulling his brows together. He was clearly off his guard. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

It _was_ a lot of work, but it had been work she’d always enjoyed.

“I—um. Are you sure you’re up to it? I can help you? Put them together, I mean.” She knew he was talking about his magic, not a needle and thread. It was a kind offer, but it was unnecessary.

She titled her head and chuckled, “Thank you, Merlin, but I think I can manage. I was a seamstress, remember?”

Something lit up in Merlin’s eyes. His mouth fell agape.

“Oh,” Gwen realised, her mood suddenly dwindling. “You didn’t remember.” It hurt more than it should have. Merlin hadn’t meant to forget such a thing, but she had been a seamstress when they’d first met. It made her consider what else he may have forgotten about her. What exactly was her legacy in his mind? Morgana’s maid? Arthur’s wife? Camelot’s queen? Everything but her own person, the friend he’d stood alongside for many years.

“No! No, it’s just—I didn’t. I’m sorry, Gwen,” he hurried to say, knowing he’d offended her. “I just remember things that were more . . .”

Now, she was truly hurt. “What? _Important_?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s what you meant!”

Merlin opened and closed his mouth a few times, but all that came out were throaty sounds. At once, he was ashamed—wounded, even. His sorrow ran deep; she could tell by his expression.

Gwen took a calming breath. She hadn’t meant to shame him. She pitied him, in a way. There was probably much he didn’t remember about Camelot, or Ealdor, or his own mother. Gwen tried to see it from his perspective, but she couldn’t imagine what such a thing was like.

 _Right, then,_ she thought, resolving to complete two tasks: help Merlin, and salvage his relationship with Arthur.

 _And rekindled your own marriage_ , Gwen reminded herself, but didn’t pause to wonder why that had been an afterthought. Arthur wasn’t currently around, so she’d focus on Merlin for the moment. To help him, she’d have to remind him of who he really was. It seemed she’d have to start at the beginning.

“The most important thing is to remember where we come from, Merlin. Without it, we wouldn’t be where we are now.”

Merlin blinked a few times, then nodded. She was sure her words had gotten through.

Warmth spread over her face. She hooked her arm in his and cupped her opposite palm onto his elbow. “Come on. Let’s find those fabrics. I can make something for you, if you like? A scarf?”

She got a grin out of him. It was timid and directed at the floor, but it was progress.

Gwen bought two bags worth of materials. She chose a selection of cottons with pastel colours or floral prints, some velvet, synthetic leather, plaids, and sewing supplies for stitching and embroidery. Afterward, they found the woman selling chocolates again and bought more to take home. And, if the moment outside the clothes vendor hadn’t been forgotten, the anxiety from it had evaporated. 

Shortly after, Arthur caught up with them. “Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Gwen unhooked her arm from Merlin and turned around to regard Arthur. She was aware of Merlin’s full body slackening with relief, but she paid him no mind once she scanned Arthur and saw something in his hand. It was a white, narrow box with a red ribbon tied around it.

“Guinevere, I got this for you,” he said, holding the box up between them.

“For _me_?” The surprise of it halted her completely. In all the time Arthur had been gone, she never imagined his errand was for her. It was why he’d wanted to go alone: He wanted to surprise her. She fixed her eyes on the box, her mind running wildly as it tried to guess what lay inside.

“They told me not to open it in the shop, but I don’t think anyone is watching now.”

Gwen was vibrating with elation and curiosity. “Thank you.”

Gingerly and with both hands, she lifted the box, which was slightly heavier than she’d anticipated. When she did so, her fingers brushed against his. Her pulse leapt in exhilaration, only boosted by the fact that Arthur didn’t retract from the touch.

Maybe her feelings from before were only in her mind, a product of stress from her new environment. Arthur may have been in shock, too, from seeing her again; and now it was wearing away.

Gwen took care to untie the ribbon and remove the lid. She gasped softly at the thing inside. A dagger lay atop a red cloth bed. It was made of mirrored steel, with serrations and a tip coming to an elegant hook. The handle was carved from dark, glossed wood. A spiralling ivy pattern was etched into it.

Throughout their marriage, Arthur had given Gwen many gifts: the finest jewels, silks from every kingdom, pieces of art, and more. Her most cherished gift was the last one he’d ever given her. It was presented a few days after he’d saved her from Morgana’s possession of her mind.

It was a dagger, one with a straight point and a handle made of gold. A single ruby adorned the pommel. It looked like something her father might have forged, which is what Gwen liked about it best. There was nothing embellished or elaborate about it. Arthur knew her preferences. All she wanted—all she needed—was simplicity and his love.

On that day, Arthur had taken her free hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I trust my men,” he’d said, “but I won’t risk losing you again, Guinevere. You have a right to protect yourself should the need arise.” 

Gwen kept the dagger with her at all times until she died. She rarely had cause to use it, but it gave her mental and emotional strength. Each time she looked at it, she knew the same thing she had on that day: How precious she was to Arthur.

This new gift spoke of the same fear of loss, and carried the same heartfelt gesture.

At once, Gwen was certain all her doubts had been imaginary. There was no strain between them. Arthur was still the same man she’d married, and he still knew her. Learning how to love him again would be easy. In fact, she thought she felt it already.

“I don’t know what to say,” she breathed, truly at a loss. Emotion and memory choked her. “It’s beautiful, Arthur.”

Arthur beamed, seemingly very pleased with himself. For a moment, she could not take her eyes off him.

She turned, wanting to show off the gift to the man behind her. However, Merlin had drifted away a few paces. He was intently looking at a merchant’s selection of tiny, plastic cars. Gwen had no idea why he was so fascinated, because the products were clearly toys. The only other customers around the cart were children and their parents. 

Gwen was about to call out for him, but a sudden shriek erupted through the room. It rose above the other noises and echoed off the glass roof. Everything else—the chatter, the haggling, the music, the laughter—died, making way for more panicked screams. The masses ran in every direction away from the centre of the room. 

Arthur shoved Gwen behind him. Merlin was at their side instantly.

Gwen felt the heat, as intense as a furnace even at the distance, before she saw what was producing it. A cage was being wheeled through the centre aisle of the marketplace. It was on fire, fuelled by the mess of hay lining the bottom. As it went in its slow procession, the fire spread to hanging banners and lit up some of the merchant stands.

There were five people trapped inside of the cage. Three of them were hanging from the bars, desperately trying to get away from flames that licked up to them. One man was slamming himself into the side of the bars to put out the fire on his sleeve. The last person was on the floor, charred and unmoving, serving only as more kindling.

Everyone alive was crying for help.

Through the commotion and the heat waves, Gwen caught sight of the person wheeling the cart. It was one of the security guards from outside. He was shouting something over and over again as he heaved the wagon. His voice was even, automatic; his expression was blank.

“You will burn, as you have burned us for generations!”

Arthur reflexively reached for something at his side, but nothing was there. “Dammit. Merlin!”

“Take this!” Gwen dropped the box to the floor and gave him the dagger. She could use it to defend herself, but any blade was of more use in Arthur’s hands. 

“You will burn, as you have burned us for generations!”

The security guard pulled something out from his jacket and held it up. It was an orb that seemed to be made of pure light, glowing and volatile, swirling white. It was magic.

Arthur grabbed the dagger and raced forward. 

The security guard tossed the orb into the flaming cage.

“Arthur, wait!” Merlin lunged himself at Arthur, trying to keep him back.

There was loud bang, loaded with the heat of a volcanic eruption. Gwen was flung off her feet, and landed hard on her back. The pebbled glass from the blown out ceiling rained down, tearing at her skin as she shielded herself. Her eardrums were ringing ceaselessly, and her face felt scorched. Every muscle ached.

Bodies were scoured around her. Some were moving; others were bloodied and missing limbs. Many were dead. The vendors’ burnt products were littered everywhere, amongst the rubble of the carts. Everything was on fire. The smoke from it trapped itself in Gwen’s lungs, and she coughed it out as she fought for air. She tried to sit up. Around her, people were screaming and wailing, but they sounded like they were underwater. 

“Gwen! Guinevere! Are you alright?” Arthur appeared in her line of vision. His cheeks and nose were covered in ash, and his hairline was dripping red. He fell to his knees next to her. She shook her head, trying to power through the haze.

“I’m fine,” she shouted, barely able to hear her own words.

Arthur looked away, searching wildly. “ _Merlin_!”

A few feet away, Merlin heaved to a sitting position and coughed into his fist. Still on his knees, Arthur scrambled towards him. He kept one hand on Gwen’s shoulder while the other reached for Merlin.

Merlin blinked a few times at the pandemonium. With effort, he raised his palm to the shattered ceiling and made his eyes glow. Immediately, the sky became blacker, and rain poured down in torrents to put out the fires. Gwen heard it hissing as it splattered around her, soaking her through. Her hearing was returning, and her skin wasn’t so numb anymore. 

Merlin swayed slightly, drained, like he might lie down again. Arthur caught him. Merlin fisted at Arthur’s shirt, pulling and twirling the fabric like he’d never let go. Arthur nodded and whispered something to him, and whatever he’d said made Merlin close his eyes and breathe.

When his eyes fluttered open again, they zeroed in on something over Arthur’s shoulder. In the time it might take to strike a match, Merlin’s expression twisted into fury. He forced his palm forward, and something like a streak of lightening fired from it. 

Gwen snapped her neck in the same direction. The person Merlin had aimed for deflected the blow with magic, causing it bounce off path and collide with a wall in a spray of sparks. 

Through the rain and dissipating smoke, standing a dozen metres away, was Mordred. He was standing amongst the chaos, watching them. He remained for another moment, as though he wanted them to know he was there, before sprinting away.

Arthur grabbed the dagger on the floor and tore after him.

Gwen shouted his name and reached for him, but it was no use. Merlin clamoured to his feet and hastily helped her do the same. “Hurry! Hurry!” he urged until she was standing. Every movement was a struggle. Her limbs were weighted and her clothes were heavy from the rain. She powered through her lightheadedness, and they ran after Arthur.

They followed him across the room and down a delivery corridor. Gwen’s boots squeaked and she tried not to slip on the water dripping off of her. Far ahead of them, Mordred was headed for the door to the outside. Arthur was quickly gaining on him. Mordred pushed hard through the door. It was heavy, and instantly slammed behind him.

Arthur threw himself at the bar. The door jerked open, but then closed again like some force was holding it shut. He used all his strength against it. Each time it cracked open, the howling of strong winds blew down the corridor. Before Gwen and Merlin caught up, the wind let up, and Arthur stumbled through the threshold.

Outside, the rain was still in a downpour. They were in an alley, between two solid brick walls. Both directions led to the streets, but they were a long way to go on either side. Mordred was nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” Arthur raged, still holding up the knife like he was prepared to use it.

The only things in the alley were two dumpsters to their right. To their left was something that made Gwen gasp. She grabbed Merlin’s arm and pointed at the slack body of the second security guard.

First, Merlin looked up at the sky, and the rain stopped. All that remained were deep puddles, the drops coming off their matted hair, and the sopping clothes that made Gwen shiver cold. Merlin crouched next to the security guard and opened one of his eyes. He checked the pulse in his neck, and let out a heavy sigh.

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Gwen echoed. She saw no pools of blood around the body.

“Mordred did this.”

“Where the hell is he?” Arthur jumped in, still fuming.

Merlin ran his fingers through his hair, letting loose more water. Quickly, he looked to the puddle of rainwater at his feet and shouted down at it, “Did you see what happened? Anything?”

Gwen jerked her head back and wrinkled her nose at Arthur. He seemed just as taken aback. Had Merlin completely lost his mind?

“Freya!” he shouted louder when the puddle didn’t answer him.

Gwen was genuinely concerned.

“Who the hell is Freya?” Arthur demanded.

“Obviously someone who’s giving me a taste of my own medicine. Freya!”

Arthur took a few steps forward and kicked the puddle, making it splash into Merlin face. Merlin vainly jumped back but didn’t avoid the onslaught of dirty water. “Would you stop yelling at the ground? Tell me how Mordred got away! _Magic_?”

Merlin appeared to give up on the puddle and glared upward. “How do you think he did that? By flying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Couldn’t he— _transport_ himself or something?”

Gwen wondered the same. Magic was the only explanation. There was no way Mordred could have gotten out of the alley without them seeing him, even with the wind momentarily blocking their access.

Merlin stood up. “No. That’s not possible. Not with Druid magic.” 

“Then, how did he get away?”

Gwen braced herself because, for a moment, it looked like Arthur was going to punch the brick wall. He stopped himself, and placed his hand on the wall instead, appearing to think. He exclaimed, “Wallace said he’s working with someone! They could have magic, too. They could have done this.” 

“They can’t have.” 

“Why not?” The question was asked through gritted teeth.

“Because no one practices the Old Religion anymore! Transporting yourself, let alone two people, takes _immense_ magic. The only people who could do it were _some_ of the High Priestesses and _some_ of the Catha, and they’re all dead. It’s powerful magic, and it takes decades to master.” 

“Can you do it?”

Merlin scoffed. “I never tried! It’s dangerous!”

“In other words, you were scared?”

“ _Yes_ , I was scared! I’d rather drive. That way, I know I won’t lose any limbs.”

“Well, with the way _you_ drive . . ." 

Apparently, some things about their relationship hadn’t changed at all. From what Gwen remembered, they would be at it for a while, and it was best to let them get it out of their systems. If she cut it off prematurely, they would be terse and brooding for the rest of the day. 

“Like you’re _such_ a better driver!” 

“I am such a better driver.”

“Oh, right, you just don’t do it because it’s a servant’s job, _sire_.”

Gwen heard sirens wailing in the distance, and assumed it was help on its way. She looked over her shoulder, down to the opening of the alley, to see a crowd had collected on the opposite side of the street. Something else caught her eye. Something that looked like pitch-black smoke was swarming on the other side of the dumpsters. Gwen narrowed her eyes at it and turned fully in its direction.

“Arthur, Merlin,” she whispered. 

“Don’t start _that_ again! Focus on what we’ve learned today instead. Mordred’s accomplice doesn’t drive a car, and they’re a lot braver than you, _Mer_ lin. That certainly doesn’t narrow down the list.”

The smoke vanished. On the ground, sticking out from around the dumpsters, was a pair of boots. 

“Oh, god! You are such a wanker! Could you just, for once, listen to what I’m—!” 

“Arthur!” Gwen shouted. Finally, they stopped bickering and looked at her. She took a breath, trying to steady herself, and pointed her chin to the feet. “He wasn’t there before. I’m sure of it.” 

Arthur squared his shoulders and clamped his jaw. “Stay here,” he told her. Holding the dagger up again, he sidled to the other side of the bins. Merlin stood level at Gwen’s side, appearing ready to jump forward at any moment.

When Arthur reached the other side, he looked stunned. He didn’t exactly stagger back, but backpedalled a step or two. He dropped his hands to his side and stared.

“Arthur?” Gwen asked warily. She’d never seen him so spooked. “What is it?”

“I think,” Arthur said, “we’ll need to pull the car around.” 

Gwen and Merlin shared a perplexed look. They both paced forward slowly. Gwen’s heart hammered in anticipation. When they came into view, Gwen recognised the man instantly—along with his red embroidered robes, covered by a long brown vest for warmth. 

“Gaius?” Merlin choked out thickly. He’d gone pale as a ghost. Gaius was unconscious, his head lolled to the side as he leaned against the grimy wall. Merlin collapsed to his knees next to him, desperately holding him upright and gently slapping his cheeks to awaken him. All the while, he repeated Gaius’ name is shuddering breaths.

Gwen felt tears burning her eyes. She swallowed hard, and remembered the day Gaius died. It was a completely unremarkable death. He had passed in his sleep due to old age. It was one of the hardest days of Gwen’s life.

She looked next to her at Arthur, and he met her gaze. His own eyes were sombre. Between them, she held out her hand to him. He laced his fingers into hers.

 

///

 

The Neo-Druid base was hateful. It was a colony of barracks and concrete surrounded by high fences. A village stood around it, where all the Neo families lived. Mordred wasn’t certain which he hated more: the concrete or the homes. The barracks reminded him of his days as a knight in Camelot, and the homes reminded him that he never had one of his own. His home and his family had been stolen from him when he was a child.

And the men who had taken them from him were still breathing, something that he had nothing to do with. He wished he, not destiny, had brought Arthur back. He wished to have both him and Merlin at his mercy.

However, at the moment, he needed another man to fear him. He was currently standing in that man’s office. Nigel Cyrus must have been in his late forties. He had a shaved head, and his thin dark brows were the only hair on his face. He had a lined forehead, crows feet around his eyes, and wrinkles dimpling his cheeks. His nose was flat and his eyes light, a contrast to the smart black suits he always wore just to show how important he was.

Through the window outside his office, Mordred saw a group of soldiers training with swords. Mordred had a sword of his own, but he relied on his magic more than the blade. It must have been hard for the Neos, what with such weak magic. They gave themselves the name _Druid_ , but they were nothing of Mordred’s people. It was an insult to their memory.

“We had a deal,” Mordred said evenly, towering over Cyrus as he sat in his desk. Mordred was not happy. Cyrus had acted too quickly; he’d ruined everything. Mordred had managed to sacrifice a man, but he couldn’t stay long enough to see whom it had brought back. 

He’d heard the explosion just as the offering was complete. It had been too soon. He couldn’t stick around for when the authorities swarmed the area.  He’d burst inside the marketplace, eager to get his hands on the Neo spies lurking in the crowd. Instead, he found _them_. 

He’d seen them before, at crime scenes or out about in the city. He and his spies kept tabs on their whereabouts, though he didn’t know where they lived. He always lost track of them before he could follow them that far, like their home was shielded from him.

For months, they never saw him. Until recently, they didn’t even know he was alive again. Part of him wanted to keep it that way, but the other part knew the discovery had been inevitable. Now that they knew he was alive, they were most likely scared. Mordred wanted them scared. He had plans for them.

However, he couldn’t fulfil his plans if Cyrus and his men continued their incompetence.

“Yeah, and I honoured the deal,” Cyrus insisted. This was a man who believed he could do anything he wanted. He believed he was in charge, that the kingdom belonged to him. Mordred almost felt sorry for him. Soon, he’d learn how wrong he’d been. This land rightfully belonged to another.

“Your men were early,” Mordred argued. “I didn’t have time to finish my task. I said I would help you carry out the attack, but only after my business was done.”

Cyrus shrugged and rested his laced fingers behind his bald head. “Everything was in position. We couldn’t wait. Voodoo mind control only lasts for so long.” 

Mordred balled his fists at his sides. _Because your magic is pathetic_ , he wanted to spit out, but he bit his tongue.

Instead, he said, making it sound like a threat, “This will not happen again. Our arrangement is clear: You and your men give me whatever I need, and I will bring you one with more power than you’ve ever dreamed. Today, I did not have what I needed. That is your fault.”

Throughout, Cyrus’ face darkened. He leaned forward slowly, and then stood up, leaning into his fists on his desk. “Watch your tone with me,” he threatened. “I _have_ given you everything you’ve needed. I’ve done it since the night your snivelling arse came begging to me two years ago. My men damn near ripped apart this whole bloody island searching for _what you needed_! Well, you have it. And what have you got to show for it? Nothing useful! So, yeah, I couldn’t wait today. I’m tired of waiting on you.” 

Mordred ground his teeth. He was so close, and then he wouldn’t have to bow to Nigel Cyrus or any of his men again. They would bow to him. He, too, was tired of waiting.

“In time,” he assured.

Cyrus dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I need Old Religion magic, not your empty promises, _boy_.”

Mordred wasn’t sure why that was the last straw. His blood boiled hot. This man had no respect for the Old Religion, so Mordred would teach him some. He held out his hand and formed a tight fist. His eyes glowed gold.

Instantly, Cyrus’ hands flung to his neck, trying to release the hold on him like it was a physical force. He choked, and then gagged when he had no more air left in his lungs. He swayed on his feet, struggling to keep upright. He stumbled into his desk, making it rattle. Mordred tightened his magical hold. Cyrus turned purple from suffocation. His eyes were bloodshot and pleading.

“That is enough,” a calm female voice, with the slow pace of a metronome, sounded from behind Mordred. A slender hand touched itself to the wrist of Mordred’s extended arm, but she did not put in the effort of lowering it. “He is still useful to us.”

He wanted so badly to end Cyrus’ reign then. But he knew the woman was right. He released Cyrus, his eyes dimming back to their icy blue. Cyrus heaved in a loud breath and fell back into his chair panting.

Mordred looked down at the hand stilled placed on top of him. His eyes followed the arm to look upon the woman’s face. She was a wicked, savage beauty. Blonde waves fell around her in currents, and she had a stare that could burn through metal. Looking into her eyes was like staring into the lowest pit of hell.

Mordred lowered his arm, and Morgause rode the motion as though she had caused it herself. She fixed him with another look that told him to remain quiet before turning from him. She looked to Cyrus, who recoiled like he was afraid. 

 _It’s about time he feared us_ , Mordred thought smugly. Fear would keep him alive longer.

“You will adhere to our terms from now on,” Morgause told him, as though she were explaining it rather than demanding it. “We shall hold up our end of the bargain, but you must be patient. And you must give Mordred free rein. He will no longer take part in your suicide missions.” She looked at Mordred from over her shoulder, the corner of her red lips pulling upwards. “He has far more important things to worry about.”

She turned her attention back to Cyrus, who once again jumped. “You will get what is coming to you, I assure you that. Until then, you and your men will stay out of Mordred’s way. Are we clear?”

Cyrus nodded rapidly to show he understood. He looked like a mouse cornered by a cat. 

Morgause paced back to Mordred and, before passing him, placed a hand to his shoulder. “Come, now,” she told him, lifting a manicured brow. “We have work to do. And we mustn’t leave Cenred alone too long with the prisoners. They may overpower him.”

She let her hand slide away and made for the door. As she sauntered away, she added, “He always was weak.” 

Mordred remained for a moment, staring Cyrus down. The man tried to keep the gaze, but faltered almost instantly. Mordred didn’t let himself smile in the success. He hadn’t won yet.

He followed Morgause out of the office.


	3. Chapter 3

The room around Arthur was darkening as the sun faded over the horizon in a rainbow of hues. He sat at the breakfast table, his chin resting on his entwined fingers. Mordred occupied every shadowed corner of his mind. He couldn’t shine a light on any of them. Thoughts of Mordred simply sat there, weighing on him but going nowhere.

A hundred times, Arthur replayed the moment in the marketplace he’d first seen Mordred—the moment their eyes latched onto each other’s, as unbroken as the last time their gazes locked. A hundred times, the memory rattled Arthur’s spine. 

“You’re worried about Gaius,” Gwen said. Arthur hadn’t realised she’d entered the room. As he looked at her, he wondered how long she’d been watching him. She was standing at the other edge of the breakfast table, making fists around the top of a chair. Her head was tilted slightly to the side as she sized him up, and Arthur had never felt so exposed.

To a point, Gwen had always had that effect on him, even when she was simply Morgana’s maid hustling about the castle on errands. When she looked at him, Arthur always felt she was seeing every inch of him, both inside and out. All his doubts and concerns were laid bare, and he could hide no secrets from her. It had never discomforted him as it did now, perhaps because he _was_ hiding a secret from her.

Perhaps not.

The look was more intense than he remembered. He wondered how many members of court had shied away from it throughout her reign.

Arthur lowered his hands and sat up a little straighter. He hadn’t been thinking of Gaius at all, and instantly felt guilty. He should have gone to check up on him.

“It’s not Gaius that worries me,” Arthur admitted into a sigh.

Gwen looked down at her hands and she twisted them against the chair back. Arthur took the moment to narrow his eyes at her, to get a good look while he had the chance. He hated lying to her, but he didn’t know what to say. He’d kept his distance from Gwen, because if he didn’t, he’d blurt out his confession without control.

Would she care? Did she even consider Arthur her husband anymore? She’d had plenty of years without him; she could have forgotten her love for him. But there had been moments between them, like the one in the marketplace, when Arthur had felt the bond they shared. Each time, it hit him squarely in the chest, hard enough to stop his breathing. He wondered if she’d experienced it, too, or if she’d let him go. 

He wondered if he should let her.

After all, he had Merlin. Arthur had kept his distance from Merlin, too, partly because he didn’t want Gwen to become suspicious, but mostly because Merlin was visibly insecure and Arthur hadn’t the faintest clue how to deal with it. He didn’t want to make it worse. He couldn’t break Merlin’s heart again. Merlin, who had never forgotten. Merlin, who had never let go.

“He’s still out there,” Arthur went on, trying to push away any thoughts of Merlin or Gwen. Dwelling on Mordred was better. At least, he understood how Mordred made him feel. Mordred made him angry, made him want to leap into action. He wasn’t the least bit torn on his feelings for Mordred. The man was his responsibility, and Arthur would bring him justice for all those he’d killed. 

“We will find him, Arthur,” Gwen told him, as though she could promise such things. She walked around the table and stood at his back. He felt her palms slip beneath the collar of his shirt, followed by the firm touch of her fingers. She pressed her cheek into his temple, and quickly replaced it with her lips. 

She had done that many times, and it always comforted Arthur. Now, it made him freeze.

What if Merlin had seen? It felt dangerously close to adultery, until he remembered that Gwen was his wife. And then, his union with Merlin felt like cheating. Arthur didn’t know what to feel. It was too confusing. A war raged beneath his breastbone.

He couldn’t lie to her anymore. She had to know. As she pulled away from him, Arthur drew in breath to speak. At that very moment, the flat’s door opened, and Arthur’s courage came crashing down in a ball of fire. He felt the very moment it hit the earth. Its crater was vast and hollow.

Merlin came through. He’d been at Gaius’ side since the moment they’d found him. Arthur didn’t know what drew him away now, but he reasoned it must have been exhaustion. Merlin looked drained, from the pallor of his skin to the shuffling of his feet and the slump of his shoulders.

“How is he?” Gwen asked expectantly.

“Still resting.”

“ _Still_?” Arthur exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you wake him?”

“Not yet.” Merlin paced to the table, and stood in the same spot Gwen had previously been. “I think we should talk first.” Arthur’s pulse jumped, suddenly certain that Merlin was going to out their secret. But then Merlin finished, “About Mordred,” as if there could be another topic.

“He’s brought back Gwen and now Gaius, and I don’t think they’re the only ones.”

At once, Arthur recalled, “That unconscious man Mordred was dragging on the CCTV footage. You think—?”

“He may be someone from Camelot,” Gwen finished for him. Arthur had told her all about the death Mordred had left in his wake. She seemed to be mulling over the information, and apparently made up her mind on its plausibility almost immediately. “All those people he’s killed, he did it so he could bring someone back?”

Those were the rules of magic: a life for a life. Arthur shook his head. “If that’s true, he’s brought back eight people, including Gaius.”

“Maybe more that we don’t know about,” Gwen agreed.

“If he’s resurrecting those he knew from Camelot, my men could be back,” Arthur realised. “Leon, Percival.” 

“Elyan,” Gwen breathed.

“Gwaine,” whispered Merlin.

The thought of it stirred the anger twisting Arthur’s gut. “Then, why are we standing around doing nothing? Mordred could be keeping them prisoner somewhere!”

Before Arthur could jump into action, Gwen advised, “You must think of the consequences, Arthur. What reason has Mordred for doing this? He knows you’re alive. He may want you to go looking for them. He knows you’d never leave your friends to suffer. You mustn’t play into his hands.” 

But Arthur’s friends _were_ suffering, and it was his fault. He owed it to them to free them.

“That can’t be the only reason,” Merlin said. He crossed his arms over his chest and bit at the inside of his cheek. “He went through a lot of trouble for these resurrections. He killed eight people for it. There are easier ways of setting a trap.” Consideration quirked his expression, and he shrugged. “Unless he can’t control who he brings back.”

Arthur huffed. “Then, why bring anyone back at all if he doesn’t know who he’ll get? There’s no point.”

“There’s a point if he’s trying to bring back someone specific.”

Suddenly, Arthur’s skin bristled, and his backbone was ice cold. Putting aside Gwen, Gaius, and his men, there were three other victims, the three other lives Mordred had stolen. The ones who had taken their place were unaccounted for. 

“Do you think he’s brought back—?” He couldn’t entertain the thought, but Merlin understood.

“I think,” he said carefully, “we’d know by now if he did.”

Arthur closed his eyes, trying to think. If not Morgana, than who else could Mordred have summoned? He remembered Kara, the Druid girl who had started at all. Whenever he thought of Kara, he was torn between a sense of remorse and justice. The girl could have caused serious damage to the kingdom. Arthur had a duty to protect his people from the likes of her. But she had been so young, so impressionable. If he had spared her life, perhaps he could have shown her the truth, not the lies Morgana had filled her head with. Perhaps then Mordred wouldn’t have betrayed him.

Or maybe Mordred’s heart was already blackened by magic, as it had corrupted Morgana. Maybe there was no saving him.

“Then who are the last three?” Arthur reached up to rub the tired from his eyes. It didn’t help. How could he be so tired after sleeping for a thousand years?

Merlin hung his head like he hadn’t slept a day in his life.

It was Gwen who offered, “The first may have been Mordred himself. If he really is working with someone, they may have resurrected him.”

Arthur scoffed, “Why would anyone want to resurrect _Mordred_?”

“The Druids—The Neo-Druids,” she corrected herself. “The ones who attacked the marketplace today. Mordred’s being there couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

It was the best guess they had, and Arthur jumped on it. “That’s right! Merlin, you said they don’t practice the Old Religion. They may have needed someone who does.” 

Arthur hated the idea of Mordred working with the Neos. Cyrus’ goal was to rid Britain of everyone without magic. Arthur shuddered to think they were getting closer to that goal, and that Mordred was the reason.

However, Merlin seemed less than convinced. His mouth was puckered like he’d tasted something sour. “I don’t think so . . .”

“Who _else_ could have brought him back?” Arthur snipped. He was tired of questions without answers. He needed something solid to sink his teeth into. He needed to find his men before they died again. “They’re an organisation of magic users! It _has_ to do with them!” 

Apparently, it still didn’t sit right with Merlin. He showed no indication that he was listening. It grated further on Arthur’s nerves. Merlin hadn’t offered any reasonable suggestions, not like Gwen had.

“If you have a better guess, you should share, _Mer_ lin. You’re the one meant to be the expert on _magic_.”

“Arthur,” Gwen reproved calmingly. It reminded Arthur to breathe, and his rage dwindled. He pinched the bridge of his nose to quell the headache he felt coming on.

With the darkness swelling behind his closed eyes, he heard Gwen ask without preamble, “Who is Freya?” 

Arthur’s eyes snapped open when he remembered the puddle Merlin had been shouting at outside the marketplace. He’d called it Freya. Arthur had completely forgotten about it until that moment.

He looked to Merlin, who was suddenly more guarded than before.

“She was someone I knew,” he confessed, “in Camelot.” 

Arthur thought back to someone called Freya—perhaps a maid in the household or a citizen who had once needed aid. He recalled no one. It was possible she was a townsperson that Arthur had never met, but he was certain he’d never heard Merlin mention the name. Had she become part of Merlin’s life after Arthur’s death?

However, Gwen was at a loss, too. “I don’t remember her,” she admitted, sounding perplexed instead of apologetic. Gwen had always made it her duty to know as many citizens of Camelot as she could. She already knew many of them before she was crowned, as she had once been one of them. But, even when she became queen, she mingled with them, whether to perform charitable works, visit old friends, or listen to their woes in the promise of helping them. If there were a Freya, Gwen would have known her.

Merlin cast his eyes towards the kitchen, watching droplets of water leak out of the faucet. “She wasn’t a citizen. A bounty hunter brought her into the city.”

Something clicked for Arthur. “She was a sorceress.” Uther often paid bounty hunters who brought him people with magic or magical creatures, all of which met a horrible fate. Arthur hated it. It was one thing to kill a wicked creature terrorizing villagers, but it was another thing entirely to hunt down those guilty of nothing heinous besides possessing magic—especially if they did not live in Camelot’s borders. Arthur didn’t know why Uther couldn’t just leave them alone, but he never spoke his grievances. He knew better. 

“She was . . . something else,” Merlin corrected vaguely.

“You loved her,” Gwen said knowingly. At once, Arthur knew it was the truth. It was written in the lines on Merlin’s face, and in Gwen’s tone. All those times Merlin had disappeared from Camelot—they weren’t all because he was battling some foe. There must have been lovers along the way, Arthur realised as his stomach twisted. He wondered how long the affair with this Freya woman had gone on. Merlin was supposed to be his alone. 

“I barely knew her,” Merlin breathed out, but there was something wistful about him, like he could have known her very well given the chance. “But yes. I almost ran away with her.” He smiled softly at the memory, as though he’d once seriously considered leaving Camelot. 

He’d considered leaving _Arthur_.

Arthur couldn’t stand it. He pushed out of his chair and paced away, his back to Merlin. He knew both Merlin and Gwen were looking at him. He could feel their eyes on his back, making his hair stand on end.

“It was a long time ago,” Merlin said. It may have been a long time ago for him, but it wasn’t for Arthur. “I had to hide who I was, and I had to bear the weight of my destiny. She understood what that meant. She knew what it meant to be afraid and different. I had never met someone like me before.” In the end, he chalked it up to, “I was young.”

But Arthur knew it was more that that. Merlin had seen Freya as an escape from Arthur. For all his talk of destiny, Merlin wanted to run from it. He wanted to abandon Arthur, and Arthur took the blame for it. He should have been kinder to people like Merlin. He should have stood up to his father’s unjust ways. He should have made Merlin trust him, not live in fear until it ate him up inside.

“So, now you go around naming puddles after her?” Arthur turned around and spat, not meaning to. But it was so much easier to get angry with Merlin than to feel guilty.

Merlin let out a breath, shakier than before, but he hid it well. “No. She’s dead, but her spirit lives on. She’s helped me through the years. She’s been my link to Avalon. To me, she can reveal herself in all waters, not just Avalon’s. I thought she’d seen how Mordred had gotten away. Usually, she answers me. I don’t know why she didn’t this time.” 

Arthur hated very much that he was competing with a ghost—not only that, a ghost who was still around, doing more than haunting Merlin. He’d never spoken of her, Arthur realised with a spike of suspicion. “Why haven’t you told me this?”

“It’s in my journals,” Merlin said in ways of an excuse.

“For god’s—You know I don’t read your journals, Merlin!” Arthur huffed. Would Merlin have ever mentioned Freya had things been different? Was he deliberately hiding her from Arthur? 

In Camelot, Merlin had known everything about Arthur. Arthur hid nothing from him. And Arthur had barely known a thing about Merlin. Now, Arthur thought Merlin had told him everything, but apparently he’d been wrong. Was their entire life together one-sided?

“What else aren’t you telling me?” he demanded. Merlin reacted like he’d been hit, and suddenly it was hard to be angry and easy to feel guilty.

“Arthur!” Gwen scolded.

He calmed himself again. If Merlin’s ghost wasn’t going to help them, they needed to figure things out on their own. “This is getting us nowhere,” he bit out. “We need answers.”

There was a pause, into which Merlin only stared at him. “Right,” he said finally, punctuating it with a curt nod. Instantly, he turned and headed for the bedroom. 

Arthur curled his nose after him. “ _Where_ are you going?”

Merlin disappeared from the room.

When he returned, he was carrying a small velvet pouch between his fingers. The fabric was cared for, but frayed and discoloured by the sands of time. Arthur had seen that pouch quite a lot in the days after his return. He knew what was inside: a thick deck of cards, even more ancient than the pouch. They were brittle and fragile and torn at the corners, but the depictions were colourful and elegant. Looking at the images made Arthur feel as if he were standing ankle-deep in a lake, with bare toes digging into the murk and the scent of sunshine on the wind. At the same time, they reminded him of every dark, lonely night he spent as king, with the burden of the world pressed on his shoulders.

They never failed to unnerve him. The weight of the pouch was heavier than it seemed.

Merlin spent hours upon frustrated hours grumbling at the cards and slamming them onto the nearest flat surface for months after Arthur came back. Arthur would sometimes wake up in the dead of night to Merlin, in the next room, talking to the cards—or to himself. Although, sometimes when Arthur was still on the cusp of sleep, he thought he heard someone talking back. He wondered now if that second voice was Freya, or another secret ghost Merlin had been hiding. 

“Not this again,” Arthur groaned as Merlin unknotted the string at the top of the pouch and produced the oversized cards. 

“You _asked_ for answers.”

“I didn’t ask for _those_!”

Merlin sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, cross-legged, and began shuffling the cards. Absentmindedly, he said, “Well, this is what we’ve got for now. Sit down.”

“What are they?” Gwen asked, plopping down to Merlin’s left. She tilted her chin to watch Merlin shuffle with interest and reserve. Arthur remembered the same attentive look lining her face at council meetings or when some boring visiting statesman told an equally boring tale over dinner. At first, Arthur thought she was much better at feigning interest than he; but he realised later that Gwen usually was _genuinely_ interested. Knowing Gwen, it shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it had. 

“Tarot cards,” Merlin told her as he pushed the sides of the deck back together to form a neat stack between his fingers. He knocked twice on the top of the deck, as he always did before a reading. He said it was to cleanse them, to banish the evil. “Mystics have used them for centuries to interpret events and guide decision making.” 

Gwen seemed sceptical. The tilt of her head deepened. “They predict the future?”

Merlin opened his mouth to protest. Arthur beat him to it. “They give insights, not answers.” He’d only echoed what Merlin had told him each time Arthur turned his nose up at _ridiculous_ _fortune telling playing cards_ , but Gwen seemed impressed at his knowledge, limited as it was.

Merlin only looked smug that _something_ had managed to sink into Arthur’s thick skull.

“They’re supposed to reveal hidden truths. It’s all about perspective,” he told Gwen before glaring up at Arthur through his eyelashes. He nodded curtly to the floor. “Arthur.” 

Arthur scoffed in annoyance to hide his true feelings on the matter. No matter how many times Merlin told him the cards weren’t psychic, Arthur couldn’t shake the squirming of his stomach. The future was a tricky thing to know. He’d rather choose his own fate, not over think his every choice due to the portents of the cards.

Destiny was not a force Arthur had any desire to grapple with. Merlin, however, had always been a different story. There was no use arguing with a fanatic, so Arthur obligingly sat with a heavy huff. He was cross-legged on the floor in front of Merlin and to the side of Gwen, three points of a triangle.

Merlin extended the deck of cards in his palm. “You know the drill.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and clapped his hand on the top of the deck. The cards were too brittle and gritty, and felt like they could disintegrate under his touch. Arthur wished they would.

“Gwen?” Merlin prompted, looking at her and nodded towards Arthur’s hand. Gwen hesitated and bit her bottom lip, but apparently decided to go along with it. She tentatively placed one elegant hand on top of Arthur’s.

Merlin put his free hand on top of hers. His eyes glowed amber for the briefest moment. The Old Religion was not something anyone else could employ during a reading, but Merlin always did. “An extra helping of magic never hurt anyone,” he once said. Uther would have adamantly disagreed.

“Ask a question,” he told Arthur.

This was ridiculous. They should have been looking for a way to find his knights, not this. “How should I know? You’re the one—.” 

“Arthur.”

He scoffed. It was better to get this over with. His skin was warming up beneath Gwen’s palm, and he was sure his clamminess revealed his true unease. “Fine. What’s Mordred’s plan?” 

“Too impersonal,” Merlin droned, as he had a dozen times before. It was just another reason Arthur hated asking questions to the cards. He had to choose his words wisely, to ask the right questions. 

Arthur grumbled as he considered how to reword the question. He was still unsure how the question would end as he began to ask, “What does Mordred’s plan have to do with . . .?”

“You’re destiny?” Merlin smirked.

“Merlin!”

“That’s the question we’re going with.”

Arthur knew protesting was futile, so he led it slide. 

He cast a quick look at Gwen out of the corner of his eyes. She was watching the proceedings with rapt attention, as though she were studying every move for later use. There was something Arthur did not recognise about her in the way her eyes moved. Her brow furrowed in concentration, he knew; her lips thinned in consideration, he remembered. But her fingers were too still on her lap. Her jaw was too sturdy of a line. 

In that moment, Arthur felt as though he did not know her at all. How much had he missed after his death? How much had she grown, changed?

The weight of Merlin’s palm, followed by Gwen’s, left him, reminding Arthur that he was the only one present who had not the years to become a changed person. He took his hand off the deck, too, and Merlin placed the stack on the floor before his folded knees.

He took the first five cards off the top and placed them top-down in a row. It was a simple spread; Arthur had seen much more complex ones, but he was glad Merlin opted not to go with any of them. Without any particular declaration or warning, Merlin turned the first over.

The depiction was of two figures, their bodies small and their faces rosy and childlike. They had white flowers in their hair, and green field rolled endlessly behind them, met by the blue sky and the shining sun. A dirt path led to a stone hut in the distance. At the figures’ feet rested six golden goblets, each filled with more flowers. 

At the bottom of the card, spidery words read, _Six of Cups_. 

Gwen scooted in a little closer to get a better view of the curved lines on the print and the fey-like features of the children. The entire scene looked like a dream. Longing tugged at Arthur’s chest.

Merlin smiled softly at the card. “There’s a reunion. But I think we already knew that.” He smiled at Gwen, but it faded slightly when he looked to Arthur. His tone was airy and teasing, but there were hints of steadfast advice in it, too. “Don’t let the past cloud your judgment. It’s a new world out there, remember?”

How could Arthur forget? Everything he knew was gone. Even Gwen was different. Still, it was comforting to have some reminder of Camelot in this new world. It centred Arthur more than he had been for two and a half years.

Merlin seemed slightly more optimistic as he turned over the second card. Arthur leaned in over it. 

Two more figures: a man and a woman amongst nature. They were entwined in one another and mostly nude, apart from some flowing silks around them. _The Lovers_ , the card declared. 

Merlin’s expression had gone dark. He did not look at Gwen this time. His eyes met Arthur’s and held them for much too long. Something in his gaze was broken. It hurt, but Arthur didn’t look away.

“There’s a choice to be made,” Merlin said, like he knew exactly what the decision would be. “And someone is going to be left behind,” he added, like he knew who that someone might be. 

Arthur had the urge to scatter the cards and kiss Merlin until he was blue. _Never_ , Arthur wanted to assure him. It was hard to make it sound convincing with their wedding bands in a drawer. Arthur had made vows once too many times in his life.

Merlin’s eyes flickered back down and he blinked rapidly. Arthur cleared his throat and looked to his lap. He tried to subtly gauge Gwen’s reaction, but he couldn’t quite make it out at the angle. He didn’t want to look at her fully. He didn’t want to make it obvious, or maybe he just feared what her reaction might have been.

Merlin turned over the third card before Arthur realised it. His breath audibly caught, bringing Arthur back into the moment.

A man was lying facedown on the banks next to a body of water. It was a river, or a lake. The silhouettes of tall hills were across the water. The first signs of yellow daylight outlined them, but the sky was black and starless beyond. The man on banks was dead, but bloodless. Numerous tall broadswords stood upright from his back.

 _Ten of Swords_ , the script whispered.

Merlin’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He flipped over the next card with shaking fingers, like he too wanted to scatter the deck.

This card was reversed, the image upright to Arthur. A dark-haired, fair-skinned man in red and gold robes stood amongst a flowerbed. His head was crowned in an infinity symbol. Around his waist like a belt, a white dragon was wrapped until its opened jaw met the tip of its tail. One hand, in which he clasped a wand, was raised over his head; the other was pointing to the objects on the earth at his feet: a sword, a goblet, and a coin.

 _The Magician_.

Merlin finally breathed, but the air came out tripping. Parts of him looked fearful, while others seemed accepting of whatever the cards were relaying to him. Mostly, though, he was relieved. 

Arthur didn’t like any of it—not the cards, not the line of Merlin’s shoulders or the dull twinkle in his irises, not the way Merlin’s lashes swept in slow blinks or the way his lips parted to breathe just a little air at a time like he was saving it in case he might need it later. Arthur didn’t like Merlin’s silence, or the ache it caused him. Merlin’s age showed on his face.

Worry spiked within Arthur. It had transformed into anger by the time it reached his lips.

“Merlin! Say something!”

“Merlin, what are they telling you?” Gwen asked in her kind way, patient and soothing rather than aggravated. Some things never change. She reached out to wrap her fingers around his forearm in comfort, but Merlin drew away.

He flipped over the final card. On it was the Rota Fortuna, with ghoulish and unnatural beings circling the curve of the wheel. Snakes and chimeras and animals and gods.

 _Wheel of Fortune_ , it said. The card of fate. Of destiny.

Arthur ground his teeth. He couldn’t take the quiet anymore. His pulse hammered in his ears to oblige him. 

“Merlin, _what_ does it mean?” he demanded.

Merlin stared at the spread of cards for a long time with a blank expression.

Finally, he opened his mouth. Slowly, he stated in an even tone, “Change is coming.”

 

///

 

Merlin sat on the floor of the bedroom with the deck of cards in front of him. It didn’t matter how many cards he put down, how many times he shuffled the deck, which spread he used. They always told him the same thing. 

The same thing he’d been told by many mystics throughout his life. Change.

No one could ever tell him the nature of that change, or what would bring it about. He thought back to the cards that had chosen Arthur, and thought maybe destiny was finally revealing its plan.

He ran his hand through his hair, staring down at the messy pile of cards in front of him. He didn’t hear Arthur pad into the room.

“Anything interesting?” he asked, startling Merlin slightly.

Once he collected himself, Merlin muttered, “Not sure.”

With a sigh, Arthur walked across the room and situated himself on the floor behind Merlin. He pushed himself in close, stretching his legs in a v-shape around Merlin, and pressed his chest to Merlin’s spine. “You should take a break,” he advised, hooking his chin on Merlin’s shoulder. 

Merlin hummed and settled into the strong arms that encompassed him. He leaned back into Arthur and closed his eyes. It’d been a long day; he hadn’t noticed it until that moment. Like after all long days, he felt weightless in Arthur’s arms. He could fall asleep right there. “Maybe for a minute.”

“For more than a minute,” Arthur ordered. “Get some sleep. The future isn’t going to change over night.”

Merlin winked one eye open and looked down at the pile warily.

“You seemed spooked earlier,” Arthur said slowly after a pause. Merlin knew the question had been coming. It was inevitable. “What did the cards mean?”

Merlin let out a breath through his nose. He tried to blink away the images on the cards. “They could mean a lot of things,” he answered unsurely.

“You said you always knew in your gut what they were trying to say.”

Every card had multiple interpretations, and their readings depended on many different factors, but mainly the reader’s intuition. He’d learned the art of the tarot from a witch in Salem in the late 1600s, and luckily got out of town before the trials began. He didn’t want to go through that again, like he had so many times before—in Camelot, during the introduction of Christianity, the Inquisition, and basically every moment until Britain passed the Witchcraft Act of 1735. It turned out to be a futile wish. The Witchcraft Act was repealed in the 1980s, and was never officially reinstated before the government crumbled. The War on Magic never ended, which Merlin blamed himself for. Maybe if Arthur had lived to unite Albion, maybe if their destiny had been fulfilled, maybe then magic wouldn’t be feared and reviled throughout the centuries. 

His mentor in Salem had been a strange woman who smelt of elderberries and had a tendency of bringing home wild raccoons as pets, but she was skilled in the Wicca. On top of teaching him incantations, charms, and potions, she gifted Merlin the deck of cards and taught him how to use them. Her advice was to always trust his instincts when reading them, to go with the first detail of the cards’ depictions that caught his eye. If he remained honest with himself, he’d always know what they were telling him.

“I’m not so sure this time,” he admitted.

For a while, he listened to Arthur breathing against his hair. He felt the rise and fall of Arthur’s stomach at his back, and could almost feel his heartbeat through his spine. Arthur had gone very quiet, which told Merlin he was thinking hard about something.

Eventually, Arthur reached forward and spread the cards this way and that until he found the one he was looking for. _The Lovers_. Merlin froze. 

“Is this what’s really worrying you?” Arthur asked like he already knew the answer. He brandished the card closer to Merlin. When he spoke again, he sounded agitated. “I made vows to you, Merlin. I meant them.” 

Merlin snorted sarcastically, trying to make light of the constriction in his chest. “Is that what’s holding you back? You’re too honourable to break a promise?” 

Arthur dropped the card. “That’s right. If not for that, I’d drop you in a minute.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Merlin and placed a kiss in the crook of his neck. 

It made Merlin a little warmer, but not any more confident. The offending card was on the top of the scattered pile. It didn’t lie. Maybe Arthur was sure of his feelings now, but that could change.

The card belonged to the Major Arcana, which meant whatever decision was made—whomever was chosen over the over, whomever the Lovers turned out to be—would be permanent. It did not speak of a passing fancy.

“Do you still love her?” he asked before he realised it. He knew it would frustrate Arthur; and, sure enough, Arthur stiffened and said his name like it was a warning. But Merlin had to know, so he pressed, “Do you? I’ll understand.”

He turned his neck as much as he could to catch Arthur’s eyes. Arthur’s face was contemplative, and a little despondent. The answer was _yes_. Merlin knew it was. It hit him like a wall.

“I’m trying to figure that out myself,” Arthur answered.

Merlin looked away again, back at the cards. He felt his magic bubbling up inside of him. It wanted to tear down the walls, to leave ashes in its wake until it took Merlin thousands of miles from there. The feelings were in self-defence, his body shielding itself from harm. He couldn’t bear to be alone again, but he would. For Arthur, he’d bear anything.

“Merlin, you must know how hard this is.” And he did. He understood. Love was complex and tricky and confusing. “But I would never leave you behind. Not after all you’ve done.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he answered like a knee-jerk reaction, his tone flat.

“I owe you everything. Take some credit for once in your life.”

Merlin didn’t answer. He didn’t trust what he might say.

After some time, Arthur stood up and extended his hand in offering. “Rest, Merlin,” he said simply.

He let Arthur pull him to a stand, but he shook his head in refusal. “I’m going to sit with Gaius. He shouldn’t wake up without me being there,” he excused, though it wasn’t the whole truth. He couldn’t stay in the bed he shared with Arthur, knowing it may soon be his alone. 

Arthur nodded, accepting the answer, and Merlin immediately left the room. He walked to the flat across the hall, not stopping outside Gwen’s bedroom door before pushing into the room where Gaius rested. Merlin sat on the bottom edge of the bed, leaning his back against the end frame.

He watched Gaius breathing shallowly, asleep. Like he’d never been anything but.

But he had been. Merlin had stayed at Gaius’ side for a week before his death. He’d left once— _once_ —to get more water from the well in the courtyard. When he’d return, Gaius had stopped breathing. Merlin should have been there. But now, at least, he could be there when Gaius woke up.

Merlin wished he _would_ wake up already. Gaius had always ever been his greatest ally. Right now, Merlin could really do with an ally.

 

///

 

“Merlin? Merlin, my boy, wake up.”

Someone was shaking him at the shoulder. Merlin grunted into the blanket his cheek was pressed against. Couldn’t he just stay asleep? 

“Merlin.”

That voice had been his alarm clock every morning for years. It always woke him up at the crack of dawn, indicating a long day ahead. A day of lugging a medicine kit around the lower town, a day of running about the castle doing chores, or an excursion through the forest, or some evil threat hell bent on destroying the kingdom. And Merlin just wanted to sleep. His limbs felt like weights. He was so tired.

“Fivemoreminutes, Gaius,” he grumbled.

 _Gaius_.

Everything flooded back at once.

Merlin jolted upwards with a gasp. His eyes burned in the morning light spilling through the windows. He felt a mess: still in yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled and sweaty from sleep, with drool dried around his mouth and sleep dust in the corners of his eyes. His back ached from the awkward position in which he’d fallen asleep at the bottom of the bed. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to catch his bearings. The man before him looked all wrong against the backdrop. He belonged to stone corridors and cluttered workbenches, behind the pages of an ancient leather-bound book or filling vials with potions. He did not belong in a bedroom in the twenty-first century.

“Gaius,” Merlin said, his voice thicker than he’d expected, whether from grogginess or emotion. His lips chapped, and he realised his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t bring himself to close it.

“Where on earth are we, Merlin?” Gaius demanded at once. “And what’s that thing on your face?”

“My face—?” Merlin’s hand flew to his cheek. He felt around for something alien, but there was only the rough dark stubble. And then he realised the beard was exactly what Gaius had been referring to. 

Merlin started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. Centuries, he’d spent without Gaius. Centuries, and the first thing Gaius did was insult his beard. He was completely aware of the hopelessly perplexed, and slightly concerned, glare Gaius was shooting him, but Merlin couldn’t stop rumbling.

Neither of them noticed Arthur stride through the door. “Merlin, have you seen my— _Gaius_! You’re awake!”

As Arthur approached the bed, Gaius went very pale. He stared, unblinkingly, like he thought Arthur would disappear if he _did_ blink. Like he thought Arthur was a ghost.

“Arthur . . . _How_?”

He snapped back into himself, and immediately looked at Merlin for an explanation. More than that, he looked at Merlin like Merlin had done something wrong—something dangerous—without consulting him first. Merlin tried his best to settle down, but his grin was still straining his cheeks and chuckles forced their way in puffs up his throat.

“I could ask you the same,” Arthur said. He put a hand on Gaius’ shoulder and didn’t let go. “It’s good to have you back with us, Gaius.” Something in his eyes was sparkling and familiar and oh so very young.

“Back with you?” Gaius repeated, still not understanding. And it was suddenly enough to drain Merlin of all mirth.

“We’ll explain,” Arthur promised, “but first, Guinevere will want to know you’re awake.” With that, he left the room, Gaius stammers following him out.

And then Gaius turned all his focus back to Merlin, and Merlin wasn’t even a little bit ready for the conversation to come. It would harder, somehow, than the first two times he’d had it.

“Merlin?” Now, there was only worry in his tone. “What have you done?”

Merlin looked down at his hands. The question wasn’t fair. He’d done so much. 

Gaius was narrowing his eyes, scanning Merlin. Then, he took in the room as a whole. “Merlin,” he said again, slowly, and Merlin had forgotten what emotion that tone once conveyed. “How long did you wait?”

Of course, Gaius would work it out. Even if he didn’t have answers, he’d have a hypothesis.

Merlin’s eyes were burning again, not from the light. The thickness of his tone was not from sleep. 

He heard Gaius let out a breath. “That long?”

“Longer,” said Merlin, “much longer.”

When his eyes met Gaius’ again, Merlin took in every detail. He hadn’t realised how skewed the image of his old mentor had become in his flawed memory. The picture in his imagination had faded and yellowed, and here it was again in Technicolor. 

All the years between when he’d last seen Gaius and that very moment were suddenly an eternity. Had it really been that long? Had so many years, so many decades, rolled by? Merlin hadn’t noticed. Had he really lived all those days, all those minutes? Had he really been alone—crushingly, endlessly—for that long?

He’d too many heartbeats. Too many breaths. He was so, so tired.

Couldn’t he just sleep?

“I missed you,” he hiccupped. Hot tears were on his cheeks, dripping off his chin and falling onto his hands. He hadn’t noticed them start. He hadn’t noticed.

“Come here, my boy,” Gaius beckoned, and enclosed Merlin in his arms. Merlin fell into them like a child with a scraped knee would fall into his father, like a bird with a broken wing seeking the protection of its nest.

“I know, Merlin. I know.”

He didn’t know. He had no idea. But if anyone could even come close to understanding, it was Gaius.

 

///

 

It was no shock that Gaius dealt with the news of his resurrection with more zeal than Gwen, and most definitely Arthur, had. Gwen had hoped she was handling herself with outward grace, while on the inside she doubted her every move while performing even the simplest of tasks. (Merlin had taught her how to use some of the appliances around her flat—the shower in the bathroom, the oven in the kitchen. Although he claimed she quickly got the hang of them, a slight jolt of panic seized her whenever she attempted to turn on the water or press a button.)

Gaius jumped right in, inquiring about everything, not for their practical use, but out of fascination. He studied the running water for ten minutes before demanding that Merlin taking him the cellar to see the tanks and piping. When he saw the books lining Merlin’s shelves, he immediately bee-lined towards them and gazed at them like he didn’t know where to begin. Naturally, his hands reached for a medical text, and he flipped through it with rapt interest.

Gwen hadn’t the knowledge of magic and science that ruled Gaius’ point of view. Because of it, she craved adjustment to this confusing new world. Gaius, however, quickly sprang into action in trying to discover the mysteries of their resurrections. After they had recounted for him their business with Mordred, Gaius immediately scolded, “Well, what have you all be doing, sitting around? What are we going to do about it?”

“ _Finally_ ,” Arthur had sighed, and Gwen had to agree. She was truly grateful they had Gaius and his brainpower back with them. At once, Gaius made Merlin pull out all his books of magic and put them each to work searching for answers to how Mordred brought them back. Arthur was less enthused about that, as he itched for action instead of study, but Gaius quickly straightened him out.

“We cannot go in blindly, Arthur. _Think_!" 

Grumbling, Arthur grabbed a grimoire and plopped down on the sofa, close to where Merlin was sprawled out on the floor. About an hour and half into the process, Gwen tried to offer Arthur an encouraging smile from her place at the kitchen table, but her eyes trailed down to Arthur’s feet. He’d tucked his toes beneath Merlin, who idly stroked Arthur’s leg as he read. He didn’t even appear to know he was doing it, like such a thing was common. 

Gwen’s brows pulled together as she watched them, trying not to make herself conspicuous. She wanted to know how long Merlin and Arthur would keep it up without knowing they were seen.

Yesterday, she had noticed a strange dynamic between them. Something had changed, and she had been sure they were no longer as close as they had been in Camelot. But then there were moments between the two of them that she could not explain. There were avoided topics, averted eyes, and unanswered questions. There was something they were not telling her. She hated to jump to conclusions. It was best to just ask. Though, she didn’t quite know how to phrase the question without sounding paranoid.

Because she was right: Arthur and Merlin were _not_ as close as they had been in Camelot. They were closer. Somehow.

She continued to divide her attention between reading and the pair of them. After awhile, she lost track of how long they remained in such a comfortable, familiar position.

Eventually, Merlin sprang into a sitting position, his hair askew and his eyes wild as they searched the page he was reading. Everyone’s attention fell on him, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

“Merlin, have you found something?” Gaius prompted when Merlin remained silent.

“I think so,” Merlin breathed. Without any more explanation, he slammed the heavy book onto the coffee table and raced to the bookshelves, rummaging until he found what he needed. Gwen, Arthur, and Gaius crowded around the coffee table, and Gwen squinted down at the ancient text trying to glean what Merlin had discovered.

He returned with a small paperback titled _London A-Z_ and an out of date atlas of what used to be the United Kingdom. As he unfolded the maps, he said, “The earth is covered by these mystical—um, call them _pathways_. They’re how magic flows through the world. They’re straight lines, mostly, travelling across lands and oceans and everything, but a lot of them have offshoots that feed into the larger lines. Like canals to a river.”

“Or a river to an ocean,” Gwen added, trying to understand.

“You’re speaking of the ley lines,” Gaius said, appearing to fish for all the information on the subject in his recollection. “The first High Priestesses and Sorcerers of the Old Religion built monuments to mark the lines’ progression. It is said the Great Stones of Nemeton are one such marker.”

“Stonehenge, right. And markings like churches or carvings in the hills.” Merlin took the map of the UK and drew two perpendicular lines through it in a marker. “Britain has two major lines, St. Michael’s and Canterbury,” he said, pointing to the lines in turn. Then, he tapped on the place where the lines met. “This is where the Crystal Cave was before it disappeared. It’s where all the ley lines derive their energy.”

“The Canterbury line goes through London,” Arthur observed, pointing to London’s location on the map.

Merlin beamed at him. “That’s right.” He put the map of London on top of the other and began to draw—one straight line to represent Canterbury, and two triangles intercepting the line. “These are the lines offshoots in the city. And these—,” he drew dots along certain locations on the map, “are where the murders took place.” 

Gwen thought she knew where Merlin was going with this as she realised, “They all took place on the lines.” 

“You’re suggesting Mordred is drawing power from the lines for a resurrection spell,” Gaius interpreted, pondering the implications. “That may very well be the case. The Canterbury line intersects with St. Michael’s, and look.” He brought the UK map to the top again and pointed. “Avalon rests along St. Michael’s line.”

“Glastonbury,” Arthur said, staring down at the point on the map. “It’s where I was brought back.”

“Because Avalon called you forth, Arthur,” Gaius explained. “It was Mordred who brought us back, not destiny. You are a different case.”

Arthur winced slightly at the word, but did not protest.

“Glastonbury is the strongest point on the line. The other great point of magical energy is one of its offshoots, here.” Merlin referred them to another part of the map, and Gwen did not need an explanation to know what city had once stood there. No matter how many times the map of the land changed, she could find its location without hesitation. “Winchester.”

“Camelot,” Gwen and Arthur said at the same time.

“Camelot,” Merlin confirmed, the word getting caught in his throat. “It’s a hotspot for magical energy. I think it’s why the creatures of magic have overrun it since their return. They come through Avalon, and they’re drawn from one major point to the other.” 

“But if London isn’t a strong point, why has Mordred picked it for the resurrections? Wouldn’t it be easier to take them directly from Avalon?” Arthur wondered. 

Merlin blew out his cheeks and scratched the back on his head. “A greater population, maybe?”

“Or he may be influenced by these Neo-Druids you believe him to be working with,” Gaius suggested. “Perhaps they have him based here in the city.”

“He wouldn’t dare be so close,” Gwen said, abhorring the thought. 

“Unless he’s taunting us,” Arthur said bitterly. 

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Gaius told them. “Mordred is not strong enough to draw such immense power from the ley lines. He will need a catalyst—a powerful relic of the Old Religion.” 

“I thought all the relics were lost,” said Gwen. If there were one that had surfaced, surely Merlin would know about it. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to dissect his suddenly shrouded expression.

“It’s possible the Neos found one,” Gaius considered. He, too, looked to Merlin. “If such a thing has been recently used so close to us, you should be able to sense its power, Merlin. It can lead us to where Mordred is keeping our friends as prisoners.”

To this, Arthur perked up, ready to go. 

Merlin, however, shuffled. “Only if Mordred is keeping the relic in the same place.”

“I see no reason why he shouldn’t. He’ll want them both somewhere guarded, and close at hand.”

Gwen nodded her head in agreement. Mordred would not stray far from the magical object, nor would he leave his prisoners alone for long. She had no doubt that, wherever the relic was, they would find Mordred. It gave her pause, as she was not sure Arthur was ready to face Mordred, especially in a potential trap. He would act rashly to save his men, and to bring Mordred to justice. Merlin, of course, would ensure no harm came to Arthur; but Gwen wished Arthur had more back up. 

“Great! Merlin, get to it,” Arthur ordered eagerly, “doing— _whatever_ it is you do. Find my men.”

Merlin scoffed out a laugh. “Arthur, Mordred’s used the relic all over the city. It won’t be that easy to find where he is! If he’s even _in_ London!”

Gwen narrowed her eyes at him, wondering why he was being so defensive.

“Yes, but you must try, Merlin. We have no other way,” Gaius said in calm support, ever the mentor.

“ _I_ do,” Merlin defended. “We could scry for them.”

“Scry?” Gaius repeated the word like it was foreign to him. It surprised Gwen. There was little that Gaius did not know of magic.

“Yeah. It’ll give us a more accurate location.” Merlin pushed away from the coffee table and retrieved a carved wooden box from the bookshelf. From it, he produced a light purple crystal hanging from the end of a long chain. With his free hand, he smoothed out the map of the UK.

“If Mordred is using a relic, it will have left a magical signature on those it’s resurrected. Like a footprint, but invisible. With this—,” he held up the crystal to be eye level, and it swayed slightly back and forth like a pendulum, “I can trace the energy it left in you two back to the source.”

Gaius seemed slightly wary. “I have never heard of such a method in the Old Religion, Merlin.”

“That’s because it isn’t the Old Religion. It’s Wiccan,” Merlin answered. “Technology’s improved since the days of Camelot.” By the way Merlin was grinning, it was meant to be a joke. Though, no one laughed, so his expression dropped.

“I’ll need something from you first,” he said to Gwen and Gaius. “Your blood.”

Gwen jerked her head back. That had been the last thing she’d expected to hear. But, before she could saying anything at all, Arthur yelled, “They’re _what_? Absolutely not! Merlin, you _can’t_ be serious!” 

“Just a drop,” Merlin objected. “It’s not like a need a gallon or anything. Just enough to make the spell work. It’s _Wiccan_ , Arthur! They like blood spells; don’t ask me why!”

Gwen remembered the hounds Arthur would take with him on hunts. Before they entered the woods, they would have the dogs sniff something with the scent of a fox on it. Once they caught the scent, the dogs would lead them straight towards the animal. Gwen thought scrying was a similar process. Though, no animals would be hunted. Instead, their friends would be rescued. For that, Gwen would happily give Merlin whatever he needed from her.

Arthur, however, was still adamantly against it. “What if it backfires? We don’t even know what relic Mordred is using. It may be dangerous. It could harm her!”

 _Her_. She was the reason for his worry. Gwen appreciated his protection, but she didn’t need him to make her decisions for her. 

“That’s _very_ unlikely,” Merlin argued, though his usual fire wasn’t behind it.

Gaius opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t get a word in.

“But it could happen?” 

Gwen stepped in before the argument could progress. “Arthur, I trust Merlin,” she said to calm him. Then, she turned to Merlin. “Whatever you need, you may have.”

Merlin hesitated from a second. He looked to Gaius, who nodded in assent. Then, his eyes stayed on Arthur. Merlin would not do anything without his say-so.

For a moment, it looked like Arthur would stand his ground. But then he sighed heavily and gave a wave of his hand. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea, but Gwen knew how much he, too, trusted Merlin’s judgment.

Merlin fetched a knife from the kitchen and asked for Gwen’s hand. She gave it to him at once, resting it palm up in his. “This will only sting a bit,” he promised, and she prepared herself for the pain. It was a quick prick to her thumb, sharp but fleeting. A small burst of crimson bubbled to the surface, and Merlin pressed one side of the crystal to it.

When he moved on to Gaius, Gwen pressed the pad of her thumb with her index finger to stop the bleeding. It thumped along with her heartbeat, but caused no harm. Arthur, however, appeared at her side and gently took her wrist as though her hand were broken. He inspected the cut and seemed relieved. Gwen offered him a gentle look as something tender bloomed within her. He worried too much for his own good.

“I’ve had worse,” she told him, wishing he didn’t think of her as some fragile thing. She’d endured much—pinpricks from sewing needled, burns from the fire when she helped her father forge a weapon, magic spells, and attempts on her life. This wound was nothing to her work-worn hands. 

Arthur’s eyes flashed in realisation of all this. “Of course,” he said apologetically, dropping her hand.

Merlin brought the red stained pendant to the coffee table and let it dangle over the map. “Show me what I seek,” he said simply.

And nothing happened. Gwen realised she was holding in a breath. She kept her eyes fixed on the crystal. It did nothing but hang, making slow, small circles as it swayed. Gwen thought maybe the spell hadn’t worked. After all, Merlin’s eyes hadn’t glowed. 

She bit her lower lip in dread and looked to Arthur. He looked back, seeming very nonplussed. Gwen let out her defeated breath.

Then, as though a breeze had come through the room, the pendant’s circles grew wider. Merlin’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his fist around the chain. He moved the crystal away from the centre of the map, going north.

The movements of the crystal slowed almost to a stop. He moved back down the map again, following the thin coloured lines of the motorways and etched in markings of the ley lines. Gwen’s lips parted as she noticed the crystal was circling more quickly now. Gaius and Arthur leaned in closer, as though to get a better view.

Merlin guided the crystal lower, bypassing the points on the map that marked London, Camelot, and Avalon. The crystal circled at a rapid place. When he brought it to one of the southernmost points on the map, the pendant dropped.

It’s point rested at the very edge of land. It was right on the line that divided solid earth from the Celtic Sea.

Merlin jerked the crystal up, making it bounce like a yo-yo to catch it in his hand and fold his fist around it. “Tintagel,” he reported. “That’s where Mordred is." 

“That’s in the Republic of Exeter,” said Arthur. “Chancellor Brown’s territory.”

Gwen shook her head, not understanding why such a thing mattered. “Is there a problem?” 

“No,” said Arthur with determination, enough to tell Gwen he was lying. 

“Sort of,” Merlin answered at the same time.

She placed her hands on her hips and turned to Merlin, silently demanding he elaborate.

“The Republic doesn’t usually let outsiders into their borders unless they have official business,” he said. “Newcomers are detained for hours while their credentials are verified. If we want to avoid that, we can’t go through the checkpoints.” 

“Then, we’ll have to find another way,” Arthur huffed. “We’re _going_ to rescue my men, Merlin. I don’t care what it takes.”

Gwen held up her palm to slow him down. “If this Chancellor Brown is really so adamant with keeping people out, he no doubt has patrols surveying the areas closest to the border. If you’re caught, you risk Mordred learning you’re coming for him.” 

“We’ll need to travel with someone who can move freely,” Merlin said. “Someone with credentials.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t suggest who I think you’re about to.” 

“We need him,” Merlin said, making for the walkie-talkie on the kitchen counter. Gwen hoped the man on the other end was truly as reliable as Merlin claimed. From what she saw of him earlier, she wasn’t convinced. Although, she was relieved Arthur would have at least one more person at his side during the journey. 

“Wallace, come in,” Merlin said, clicking down the button on the comm. 

After a few moments, static leapt into life, followed by, “Wallace here. Over.”

“Need a favour.”

“Another one? Enough’s enough, Ambrosius. I’m kinda in the middle of doing my job here—you know, keeping the city safe.”

Next to Gwen, Arthur snorted. “Good job with that,” he muttered. 

“Why should I drop what I’m doing for you _again_? Over,” Wallace continued.

“Because,” Merlin said into the walkie, “it’s dangerous and we’ll be breaking half a dozen laws in the process.”

There was silence, heavy and thick. 

The radio crackled in again. Gwen could almost hear Wallace’s grin. “Well, hell, you should have led with that. Over.”

 

///

 

The building Mordred had chosen as his base was a secluded one. Far away from the village below the hill, it stood as the last outpost against the thrashing ocean beyond the cliffs. They had called it a castle, but it wasn’t one. The true castle had fallen to ruin ages ago.

Still, the building was a maze of rooms, all decorated the same, and corridors. Wood and plaster and frills instead of cold stone and iron. It was much too big for three people. However, there were more than three. They were held beneath the building, amongst the concrete and the machines Mordred had no name for.

It was dark in the cellar, giving off the sensation of an endless night even though it was mid-afternoon. It was damp, too, from the rains and the ocean spray. The chill was biting. As he walked, Mordred held out his gas lamp in one hand, though it barely combated the shadows. The only sounds accompanying him were the echoes of his slow footfalls.

Presently, the cavern expanded into a larger room, where two bodies grimaced at the dim light like it was the sun, and two others looked already dead.

The brave knights of Camelot: Leon, his hands shackled by thick black cuffs to the boiler and his body sprawled on the floor; Elyan, slouched against the wall, his wrists hanging about his face as they dangled from a pipe on the water heater; Percival, whose hands and feet were restrained, suspending him into a limp stand against the concrete walls; and Gwaine, his head hung around the iron collar that held him to a duct on the broken electrical generator.

In the hand that wasn’t holding the lamp, Mordred held a canvas bag. He opened it and produced four half loafs of stale bread, one at a time, and toss them to each knight in turn. Leon’s bounced off his head, and seemed to rouse him only slightly. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, struggling for consciousness. Elyan’s landed in his lap. The one meant for Percival, the newest prisoner of the four, skidding across the dirt and settled by his feet. 

Gwaine’s landed on the floor, too, but he did not move a muscle. Mordred could not tell if he was breathing; Gwaine’s hair, ratty and caked in dust, covered his face as he slumped.

“Great, mouldy bread again,” Elyan croaked, his throat dry. “My favourite.”

“There is a feast waiting for you upstairs. I picked up food fresh from the town today. It does not have to be this way,” Mordred countered. Perhaps _feast_ wasn’t the right word. The province they were in was wealthier than most due to its near self-sufficiency, but it was nothing close to what these knights were accustomed to. Although, Mordred considered, the food upstairs was indeed a _feast_ compared to stale bread.

“I see no other way,” said Percival. He, like Elyan, still had his defiance. Unlike Elyan, he also had his physical strength. It would fade slower than it had in the others, but it was no match for the chains that kept him bound.

Mordred eyed them all beseechingly. “There is. I have offered it time and time again.” He had offered it day after day, since the moment the first of them arrived. He hoped they would come around. He hoped they would see sense. “You must know I take no pleasure in keeping you like this, but you have given me no reason to trust you. _Please_. We are friends. We must stick together.” 

His grievance was not with any of them. It was with Arthur and Merlin. If only they could see he wasn’t their enemy, they could be brothers again, as they once were. He would protect them from what was to come. They didn’t have to die. They could fight alongside each other again.

“From what I’ve heard, you didn’t wish to stick together when you betrayed us,” Elyan challenged. 

Mordred bristled, fighting to remain calm. “I was the one who was betrayed. You must believe me.”

They _would_ believe him, in time. They would see sense. They had to. They were all he had in this new world, for now.

“Join me,” he urged, as he did every day. “You have not seen the world outside. It is ripe for the taking. We can live like kings!” 

Leon lifted his head, struggling like it was a weight. Slowly, his throat bone-dry, he managed to say, “We have a king.”

Mordred’s fist tensed around the canvas bag. His magic whispered in his ear, telling him to use it. He could bend them to his will. Or he could snap them all in half.

“He is _dead_!” he said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t a complete lie. Arthur would be dead soon, once Mordred had the one he needed to take on Merlin. Neither of them would make it to the world the Neos would build, but it wasn’t too late for Mordred’s friends.

“They said the same thing about you,” said Elyan. 

Gwaine let out a rasping gasp of air. It surprised Mordred; he hadn’t known Gwaine was conscious. Every word was an exertion, but he got them out nonetheless. “And you should have stayed that way.” 

It pierced Mordred, sharper and deadlier than Arthur’s sword. He scoffed thickly. “You do not mean that.” 

“He doesn’t? Could have fooled me,” Percival answered, because Gwaine could not. The burst of energy had weakened him greatly. He sagged even more than he had before.

“We will never join you. We would rather die,” said Leon, always loyal to the wrong man. 

 _So be it_ , Mordred wanted to say. He could have killed them all in a flash of light. He could have walked out of the basement and never returned, leaving them to starve and die slowly. But he wouldn’t. He’d always return—to ask them the same futile question. 

How many times could they say _no_ until they saw the error of their ways? Mordred would not give up on them.

“We shall see,” he said simply. He turned, taking the light with him, and started back down the corridor. 

Behind him, Leon shouted with all the energy he had left in him, “Long live the king!” 

Mordred clamped his jaw tightly to keep his lip from quavering.

Percival and Elyan joined in the chant. Their voices followed Mordred to the stairwell.

 

///

 

Merlin spent the rest of the day preparing for his and Arthur’s journey. He packed provisions, as well as a few charms and totems that he thought might help, in his backpack. They would meet Wallace at nightfall, when it would be easier to slip out of the city and to avoid the checkpoints along the way. In the meantime, Arthur showed Gwen the most formidable parts of the factory, should anything happen while they were away and she and Gaius would have to defend themselves. 

It was highly unlikely. The building was shielded by every protection spell and ruin Merlin knew from the Old Religion, the Wiccan, voodoo, hoodoo, and shamanism the world over. Still, Arthur relied on brute strength, and he worried for Gwen—probably more than he worried for anyone else, but Merlin tried not to dwell on why.

Just before sundown, he found Gaius in their flat. He had pulled back the curtains of a window near the dining table and was looking out at the street below, his hands folded behind his back. In his reflection, Merlin saw Gaius’ expression was contemplative. More than that, it was mourning.

“Looking out the window will do that,” Merlin said, not meaning to startle Gaius, but had anyway. He dropped the backpack next to the kitchen counter and paced in further until he was at Gaius’ side. “I never do it.” But he was doing it now, and the sight of the outside world formed a pit, endless and black, in his chest. It wasn’t an empty pit, no matter how he tried to convince himself. It was filled to the brim with deep-seated sorrow. He felt it spread through his veins and sink into his bones.

Being outside amongst the world was different than looking upon it. When he was outside, he was a part of the masses, an invisible face in a crowd that never made eye contact. Looking out the window, he was divorced from the world, an outsider looking in. There was a whole world out there that needed saving. That had always been the way, for centuries, but now it looked it.

It was a world he’d failed.

He never fit into it, and he hated himself for it. Maybe if he’d tried a little harder, things wouldn’t have turned out so backwards. Maybe, if he’d just listened to his destiny the first time, things would have been better.

“It takes time to rebuild a city, Merlin; much more to rebuild a world,” Gaius told him softly. “You cannot expect it to happen on its own.”

Merlin tented his brows in dissent, even though he agreed. “Suppose that’s up to us, right?” That was the problem: it was always up to him. He hadn’t a very good track record in the past. “Caretakers for humanity.”

“Well, someone’s got to be,” said Gaius, offering him a very severe eyebrow. Very suddenly, Merlin felt like a student. “It is yours and Arthur’s destiny.”

Merlin let out an exhale that sounded something like a laugh. The sun was low now. He’d only come in to check on Gaius before leaving.

“I’m certain you’ve done your part thus far in the rebuilding,” Gaius said like it was so simple, like Merlin was still the same man he was in Camelot and nothing had changed. Merlin liked to think so, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t so. He’d changed, he just hadn’t realised. It had been gradual, just like all changes. Just as the world had changed. To him, the world wasn’t so different to what it had been in Camelot, until he really thought about it.

It was _completely_ different, wasn’t it? It hadn’t changed in leaps and bounds. It had changed a fraction at a time, slow and steady. So had he. He probably wasn’t the same Merlin Gaius once knew at all, but he couldn’t quite remember who that man had been. He couldn’t see the differences for himself. 

“What happened in the days after the War, Merlin?” Gaius questions were always tricky. Merlin never knew if he was asking from a scientific standpoint or if he was asking as someone who truly cared. Did he want facts or sentiment? History or a tale?

Merlin decided on a mixture of both. 

“People had to stay underground for a few months. There was too much radiation in the air. And it was dark all the time—like twilight, for nearly eight months before the dust dissipated. And then even the rain was still black for a time,” Merlin explained. “The dust still comes back every few months, but it’s nothing like it was. It’s mostly harmless now.”

The noise he made was a bitter one. Gaius probably never thought him capable of it.

“We didn’t even get it that bad here. It was worse in other places. At least, here, not everything died. There were still animals and plants that survived the Winter. There are some places . . . Well, there’s nothing left of them now.”

Gaius canted his head to the side in thought, studying Merlin. Merlin barely felt the weight of his stare. His thoughts were too far gone as he remembered the months after the blast. He’d spent most of them in the tunnels of London’s underground with the rest of the city, huddled together in the cold. He’d tried his best to help who he could: the wounded at first, and then the sick, and then the dying. He thought he was being kind, but when it was finally safe to reemerge, it seemed all for naught. So many things had perished. 

He looked for Arthur constantly in those days in the underground—in the flickering firelight, in the fights that broke out over rat meat, in those vying for power over the microscopic civilisations that had formed in the tunnels, in the faces of the little children searching for their mothers. He roamed through the tunnels alone, going from camp to camp, platform to unmoving train, seeking a man that didn’t exist.

Once, he heard proclamations of a man who’d taken charge of Piccadilly station. Rumour was, they had fresh water and food; that there wasn’t any sickness or hypothermia; that the leader of the station was a legend, a man who might have been a god.

People flocked to Piccadilly. So did Merlin. What they found was nothing—just a station devastated by bombs, and bones picked clean by scavengers that weren’t always animals. The leader wasn’t a legend. He was a myth. A fabrication born of desperation and a need for hope.

“These places, were they the enemy?” Gaius wondered, as though looking for a silver lining. But there was none. The sun never shines behind a mushroom cloud. 

“There was no enemy, just people on different sides. By the end of it, there were too many sides to keep track of. None of it matters now, anyway.” Merlin never thought himself capable of such bitterness, either. “All they are were poor people who died,” he said, “and all they left behind were people who wish they had.”

And now he was very aware of Gaius’ eyes on him, sizing him up, but he did not meet the gaze. After a while, Gaius gave up on it. He breathed as though he’d seen the bombs detonate, and all that followed, with his own eyes. “When did the world become so broken?” he asked wearily.

He didn’t even know the half of it.

“The day Arthur died,” Merlin recalled sadly. “Everything that happened after that was a direct result.”

“Now, Merlin,” Gaius said in a tone that sounded half like he was trying to console Merlin and half like he was trying to lecture him. “That cannot be true.”

Merlin grimaced. “No,” he agreed, “but it feels like that.” He blinked, trying to tame the pressure stinging behind his eyes. He latched onto Gaius’ eyes, because he’d learned to put his guards up when he confronted others. He would not cry. “The truth is, Gaius, the world ended for me a long time before the bombs went off." 

He didn’t wait to see Gaius’ reaction. There was nothing Gaius could have said to console him, and he didn’t need consoling. Merlin had learned to live in the world without hope a long time ago. So, he let Gaius off the hook searching for the right words by heading for the kitchen, where some dishes from dinner were still in the sink.

Gaius cleared his throat, and apparently knew Merlin no longer wished to stay on the topic. To change it, he said thoughtfully, “Arthur and Gwen seem very distant with each other.”

At once, Merlin’s stomach dropped. This subject had been worse than the last. Gaius hadn’t asked a direct question, but it had been a statement intended as a question. That’s how Merlin was certain this conversation was leading nowhere good. It was better to avoid it altogether.

He tried to play it cool, but he probably seemed cagey as he shrugged and focused on the dishes. “Have they? I’ve not noticed.”

Even if Merlin hadn’t answered, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Gaius continued, as though thinking aloud, “I would have thought they’d be happy to be together again.”

Some grease was sticking to the pan Merlin was washing. He was basically white knuckling the sponge as he scrubbed it off. “I’m certain they are.”

Gaius was relentless. “Yes, but there’s something there, Merlin.” He’d said _Merlin_ like he always had when he wanted Merlin to figure something out for himself—a spell or the ingredients to a poultice or a cure to an infected wound. It only ever made Merlin feel inadequate. Apparently, it still made him feel that way.

“They’re acting like blushing children around one another, like they did before they were married. Surely, you’ve caught on to _that_.”

Merlin huffed and gave up on the pan. He hadn’t meant to slam it onto the drying rack, but it clattered nonetheless. Some water sloshed onto his front, dampening his shirt with a chill. “Maybe they just don’t know how to act around each other. Anyone would be a little awkward in their place.”

Gaius raised a brow in speculation. “Their place?" 

Merlin didn’t meet his eyes—or his brows. Instead, he searched for a flannel to wipe off his shirt. “Yeah. Gwen lived a whole life on her own after Arthur’s death, and he’s been back for over two years now. He’s had to adapt quickly. Maybe they don’t know where they fit in each other’s lives anymore. They’re both changed people since their days together.”

Merlin ran out of things to busy himself with. He wished he hadn’t given up on the pan so easily, because now he had to focus exclusively on Gaius—and Gaius wasn’t accepting his vague answers.

“Are you suggesting they no longer love one another?” he asked, making it sound like an accusation.

Merlin jolted an immediate, “No!” Once he’d realised what he’d said, a wave of nausea overcame him. He tried to steady himself, to convince himself that Arthur was his. It didn’t work, even when he continued with desperate hope, “But maybe they’re not _in_ love anymore.”

Gaius only furthered his uneasiness by scoffing. “Please, Merlin. No one changes _that_ much. True love is not something that perishes so easily."

Merlin looked away. There was a constriction in his chest that made it a little hard to breathe. He wished it would suffocate him. Maybe then he could finally die and not have to endure Arthur’s imminent rejection once he fully remembered his love for Gwen.

“They have no reason to be acting in such a way. They’re married,” Gaius was preaching. God, had he _always_ been so high and mighty in his beliefs? There was a time Merlin would take Gaius’ word as scripture. 

“But they’re not anymore, are they?” Merlin bit out. At least that, he could be sure of. That, he knew as fact. The knowledge of it rallied him. “The laws of Camelot don’t exactly hold up anymore. Legally, they aren’t husband and wife. They haven’t filled out any documents.”

Gaius shot him that look again, the one that usually accompanied the _Merlin_ that made Merlin feel inadequate. But Merlin wouldn’t allow it this time. He couldn’t allow it.

“Surely, you know marriage is more than the signing of _documents_ , Merlin. It is a union, an unbreakable bond.” 

Yes, he’d _definitely_ always been this preachy. 

Merlin wasn’t sure what came over him. Maybe it was the fact that Gaius was treating him like a child. Or maybe it was because Merlin did, in fact, feel inadequate. But he had the sudden urge to put Gaius in his place. 

“Yeah, well, Arthur is now bound to another,” he said fiercely.

It got the reaction Merlin had sadistically hoped for. Gaius was shocked, and confused, and dismayed. Mostly, he was appalled. “To _whom_?” His tone suggested that he couldn’t believe Arthur would ever do such a thing to Gwen.

Merlin immediately regretted his outburst. His intentions in making the announcement were hateful, and now he’d have to tell Gaius the truth. He wouldn’t lie. He’d never kept such a big part of himself from Gaius before, and he wasn’t about to start. Besides, Gaius would understand. He’d always supported Merlin.

“Me.”

There was a short pause, until finally Gaius blinked. His face darkened and he titled his head down. The constricted sensation in Merlin’s chest rose up to his throat, sincerely threatening to suffocate him now.

Gaius did not understand. Gaius was not supportive. Merlin had never felt so small.

“Merlin . . .” Gaius reproved.

Merlin chose to deny Gaius’ reaction. He’d come around once he knew the details, Merlin was sure of it. He pushed a smile onto his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. However, the dreaminess in his tone was real. “We’re married. It’ll be a year in a couple of months. Can you believe it?”

Gaius pursed his lips together. “Indeed.”

The word had been short, but it spoke volumes.

Merlin dropped his shoulders in defeat. “I take it you don’t approve.” Somehow, it didn’t make Merlin as sad as it should have. Merlin wanted to fight to make Gaius understand—and he was annoyed that Gaius hadn’t given his blessing right away. 

“I’m afraid not, Merlin. You have severely abused your position.”

“My _position_?” Merlin echoed, and his annoyance grew tenfold. What did Gaius see him as to Arthur? A bodyguard? A crash test dummy? A stepping-stone? 

Is that all Merlin was good for—to protect and serve? Was he not allowed a gossamer of happiness, even after all he’d done? Did he not deserve at least that? 

Speaking as though he was addressing a primary school dropout, Gaius said, “If destiny had intended you and Arthur to be—.”

Merlin shook his head to interrupt. He didn’t want to know how that sentence ended, and he didn’t care. “It’s got nothing to do with destiny, Gaius!” He’d raised his voice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, but now he couldn’t stop shouting. “Can I do nothing for myself, just once? I love him. Not because I’m supposed to or not supposed to. Because I do. I’ve loved him for a long time—for as long as I can remember.” 

Merlin wondered if he was once able to read the incredulous expression Gaius was now wearing.

“Did you not know?” Merlin questioned. It seemed unlikely. Not much got past Gaius in those days. They never spoke of Merlin’s feelings explicitly. In fact, it was a conversation that had been skirted around on multiple occasions. 

“Of course, I knew, Merlin,” Gaius admitted, and sighed. He shot Merlin another glare, this time disappointed. It was the look that usually followed the one that made Merlin feel inadequate. “But I never thought you’d act on such a thing.” 

Merlin’s fists formed at his sides. His magic raged throughout him, and he could not stop it. It had never reacted to Gaius in such a way, but Merlin was seething. Strained and shaking, he said, “For your information, _he_ acted on it _first_.”

It didn’t seem to faze Gaius. Merlin realised why his magic was preparing for defence. He was being attacked.

Did Gaius really think him so horrible? 

“God, what do you think I’ve done, hypnotized him? Put a love spell on him?” Merlin cried out, not wanting to know the answer. “He’s not a hostage! Is it so implausible that he could love me back? Because he does!” 

 _I think_ , Merlin did not say. _I hope_.

He’d been so sure before Gwen returned. 

Gaius remained calm. “There is no need to get so defensive, my boy. The Merlin _I know_ would never use magic for such a thing.” 

The words cut deep. The anger drained from him, leaving only bitterness and an aching chest. “Am I not the Merlin you know?”

Finally, Gaius seemed thrown. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. “I didn’t mean—,” he stammered.

“No, maybe I’m not,” Merlin considered. He let his meaning fall heavily onto the counter between them. Gaius had to remember that Merlin was no longer the country boy he’d tutored in Camelot. Merlin had to remember it, too.

He had nothing more to say. The sun was down now. He had to go. He heaved his backpack over his shoulder and started out of the flat. 

Behind him, Gaius made a few unsure noises before calling, “Does Gwen know?”

It halted Merlin. His shoulders tensed, but the anger inside of him had completely diminished. It was his sadness that made him half-turn to face Gaius again. 

“We’re trying to find the best way to tell her,” he said in a voice a little louder than a whisper as he played with the strap of his bag.

“Well, you’d better find it soon,” Gaius advised, sounding like he thought Merlin had betrayed Gwen. “She deserves better than that.”

Merlin tightened his jaw and tried to hold Gaius’ eyes. Gaius had been right—about everything. Everything he’d said hit home for Merlin, whittling its way deep beneath his skin. Gaius’ words would haunt Merlin during sleeplessness for who knew how many nights to come.

He wondered if Arthur would be lying beside him during those nights, or if he’d be with Gwen. If it were the latter, at least then Merlin would know the truth. 

“Yeah,” he choked out, and turned away again before the pressure behind his eyes flowed. He kept it together until he reached the corridor, where, behind the closed door, he took in a deep rattling breath.


	4. Chapter 4

Wallace was behind the wheel, and it was all around better that way. He knew all the locations of the checkpoints leading outside the London Province, and he knew which roads to avoid in the other provinces. His car was larger than Merlin’s, too—an SUV with three rows, plenty of space to fit Arthur’s men. 

Besides, Arthur didn’t feel like he was taking his life in his hands when Wallace drove, like he did when Merlin was driving. And he preferred not to be behind the wheel himself, even though he’d use every excuse he could think of before admitting to his fear of crashing. 

They were just shy of eighty miles between London and the Republic of Exeter. Merlin sat in the front passenger seat so he could frequently cast his vision to the road ahead once they crossed the border in High Wycombe into the province of Anglia. The Prime Minister of Anglia was a long time ally of London, but that didn’t mean they could afford to run into the Anglican authorities. Arthur didn’t know what kind of spies the Neo-Druids had, and if any of them caught wind of the journey, Mordred would know they were coming. 

Luckily, the only other vehicles they passed were merchant carriages on their trade routes. Wallace stayed off the main roads, and did all he could to avoid small villages and neighbourhoods when he could. Cars were even more rare in Anglia than in London, and could be reported as suspicious if anyone saw them.

Their convoluted route took them far south, dipping low into Andover. Not many people lived there anymore. It was the last outpost before the dead zone, where the magical creatures continued to grow in numbers and spread out to the neighbouring towns. There had been sightings as far north and Newbury. It was no longer safe to be so close to Winchester. 

A high fence, as fortified as the outer wall of a stronghold, had been built to separate Anglia from the dead zone. As they drove along the hills nearby, Arthur looked at the fence below. It was an unbroken line jutting out from the earth going as far as the eye could see in both directions. On its other side, in the distance, Arthur thought he saw some large beast run into the tree line, but perhaps his mind was only playing tricks on him. 

He squinted, trying his best to look further than the horizon. He wished he had Merlin’s magical eyes so that he could see his lands again. Camelot. He thought of the citadel and its high towers reaching to the sky. He heard the cloisters ringing and horns blaring as they proclaimed his arrival back into the city. Back home.

Arthur blinked away the tears in his eyes and looked away from the window. To be so close without being able to step foot in his city hurt too much. His chest ached and emptied out. It was one thing to know his kingdom was now nothing but a wasteland; it was another thing entirely to see it for himself.

For the first time, he truly understood that he would never see Camelot again. There was no going home. 

As his thoughts of Camelot turned, he lost track of time, and they reached the Republic before he realised it. It was more difficult getting through the border than it had been in Anglia. A checkpoint guarded every motorway, not just the major ones. They were in residential areas, on country roads, on farmland. After an hour, Wallace managed to slip in through a frontage road off the A303. From there, they began the last leg of their trek to Tintagel. 

The night grew darker around them until it eventually became nothing but blackness.

It happened as they drove through Exmoor Park. There weren’t any lights, or houses, or signs of life for what felt like miles. The same stretch of road cut like a wound between dense trees that had already begun to shed their leaves. 

In the close distance, a heavily guarded building rose up from seemingly nowhere. The trees all around it had been cut down. It was made of stone and cement, and was tinted a menacing black by the night. The tall brick wall around it had barbed wire circling the top. Arthur couldn’t see much of what was on the other side, except for the darkened watchtower in the centre of the structure.

It must have once been some kind of penitentiary, but it would be long abandoned by now.

“There’s a car coming this way. It looks like a patrol,” Merlin said suddenly. 

Arthur slid into the middle seat to peer out of the windshield, but he didn’t see any headlights coming their way. The land around them was mostly flat, but it rose and dipped into hills in the distance. The patrol must have been over the incline. 

“How far?” Wallace asked. He killed the lights. 

“Four kilometres, maybe less.”

Arthur peered around. The tree line was too thick to hide the car behind until the patrol passed. The only road was the one they were on—save for a narrow dirt path that went on for nearly half a kilometre until it reached the tall gates of the prison.

“In there,” Arthur said, pointing. Wallace didn’t hesitate to jerk the wheel in the direction of the dirt road. 

Merlin lunged for the steering wheel. “ _No_!” 

“We gotta. There’s no place else,” Wallace argued, pushing Merlin away to keep control. Merlin landed hard against the door, and gaped at Wallace with a mixture of surprise and dread. Around them, the engine revved and the vehicle sped up.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Arthur demanded, though he was not really interested in an answer. Inside the prison walls was their only escape from the patrols. Whatever Merlin’s qualms, they would have to wait until later.

Before Merlin could answer, Wallace slammed on the breaks. Arthur lurched forward and reflexively caught himself on the back of the seats before he flew through the windshield. It caused a sharp pain in his wrists, which dulled almost immediately. The spike of annoyance, however, lasted a bit longer. “Wallace!" 

“Gate’s locked,” Wallace excused. Arthur looked forward. They were right outside the wall of the prison, the front bumper of the SUV nearly touching the steel gates. In the middle of the gates was a thick chain held together by a padlock. Wallace turned to Merlin. “You gotta open it.”

Merlin worked his jaw as though he were about to say something, but didn’t.

Something out of the side window caught Arthur’s eyes. A set of headlights, small beams on the horizon, had appeared into view.

“Look, Ambrosius, I get it! But we don’t have a choice! Open the damn gates!”

“Merlin, open the gates!” Arthur ordered as the headlights grew closer, and Merlin obeyed like a knee-jerk reaction. His movements did not appear to be his own. He flung his palm out automatically, but his expression spoke of how much he wanted to resist. The chains fell to the dirt and the gates swung open. The car skidded through. When Wallace cut the wheel to park along the inner wall, Arthur tumbled around the backseat.

When they came to a halt, Wallace rapidly turned off the engine and tore open his door. Arthur sprang out of the car, too, and rushed to the gates. He snatched the chains and the padlock, and barely registered how new they looked for such an old, forsaken place. Wallace slammed the gates closed, and helped Arthur wrap the chain back around the gate. 

The patrol car was almost upon them. Arthur squeezed his shoulder through the bars and fumbled to lock the chains. Once it clicked, he and Wallace slammed their backs against the brick on opposite sides of the gate.

Arthur tried to catch his breath, to overlook the breeze rattling in his ears, to listen for tires on crumbled asphalt. The patrol car slowed down as it passed the prison. Arthur squared himself, and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword in preparation.

The sound of the car passed by, and began receding.

No one moved for what felt like minutes, until Wallace finally peered around the wall and said, “They’re gone.” Arthur relaxed.

The passenger side door of the car suddenly opened, and Merlin stumbled out. Arthur wanted to get angry with him for nearly getting them caught, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. He rested his head against the brick and allowed his pulse to slow down. As he did, he got his first good look at the inside of prison walls.

The courtyard was simple, square, and small—mostly dirt and a tangled lawn overgrown with weeds. The rectangular building just ahead of them was one storey and barred by a heavy metal door. There were more walls, smaller than the outer wall but still quite imposing, branching out from the building. They connected to other buildings of similar description around the camp. There weren’t any windows, save for a few slits covered with cages. The watchtower rose up in the centre of it all.

From above, the campus must have looked like a maze. A puzzle made completely of stone.

Merlin lagged aimlessly around the courtyard, his chin angled up. He made jerking and twitching movements with his head as he neared the entrance building, making him look like a dog that had heard a sound in the distance.

“What is this place?” Arthur asked, turning to Wallace. Now that he was inside, he understood why Merlin didn’t want to go in. He’d seen a few films about prisons and their inmates, but those were all pretend. They never truly depicted the cold and desolate sensation now climbing up Arthur’s spine. He tried to shake it away, telling himself it was ridiculous to be spooked by an old building.

“What, he never told you?” Wallace asked, looking at Arthur in confusion. 

Arthur shook his head. The feeling in his gut grew as he wondered what a place like this could possibly do with Merlin. “Told me what?” 

Wallace let out a heavily breath and looked to the ground. He kicked up some dirt as he considered what to say. When he appeared like he was about to speak, he looked up again, facing forward. His brow creased and he stood up quickly from the wall. “Where is he?”

Arthur’s stomach dropped immediately. He scanned the courtyard for Merlin, but saw no one. He tried calling Merlin’s name, but no one answered.

“Look, the door,” Wallace said, pointing. The black metal door to the building was hanging open. Arthur cursed under his breath.

“We don’t have time for this,” he complained, choosing anger over worry. He went into the car and ruffled through Merlin’s backpack for the torch. The white light blinked on, and Arthur and Wallace started towards the building.

Once inside, the torch wasn’t of much use. It barely lit up the deep shadows. It only cast a circular beam that landed directly where Arthur pointed it. He panned it around to get a feel for his surroundings. There wasn’t much but an empty grey corridor, but he could not see how far down it went. A damp chill, seemingly coming off the walls, rattled through him. Bare light bulbs, some smashed, lined the ceiling. Something rustled and squeaked nearby.

“Merlin?” Arthur tried again, doing his best to keep composure in his tone. He wanted nothing more than to get out of that place. Paranoia itched at the back of his neck, like a thousand invisible eyes were watching him. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t standing in a prison, but he didn’t know what else it could have been.

“Merlin?” Only his echoes answered him.

Mustering his bravado, he tried to make Wallace out in the shadows. “He can’t have gotten far. Come on.” They walked on down the corridor that seemed to never end, the echoes of their footsteps their only company. Every so often, they passed a door that led to an office or a processing room. The only things left in them was the furniture that had been nailed to the floor. 

They got to the end of hall, pushed through a door, and found themselves outside, where the maze of walls led to the heart of the camp. The wooden boards of the walkways and steps protested under Arthur’s feet. He was sure to watch his step, just in case one gave way. The wind howled as it rushed along the brick, a lab rat chasing its prize.

They called Merlin’s name as they continued, but never got an answer. Arthur didn’t know whether to panic or rage.

Somehow, they ended up in a field at the base of the watchtower. Arthur looked around, directing the light this way and that. There was a building to either side of them, and a solid cement wall ahead. The wall was destroyed, riddled with small dents the size of bullets.

“This is ridiculous!” Arthur bit out, grinding his teeth. “Where is he? _Merlin_!”

“Shh!” Wallace hushed, though Arthur didn’t know why. The patrol was gone; the prison was deserted. Though, Arthur still felt like they weren’t alone. No one could hear him for miles, but shouting suddenly seemed like a dangerous thing to do.

“In here,” Merlin’s muffled yell came from the building behind Arthur’s back. 

“Thank god,” Arthur huffed, and turned towards it. “We can get moving.” 

They found Merlin inside what looked like a barrack. Dozens of iron bunks, with hardly any space between them, were cramped against the walls. The plastic mattresses were either missing or destroyed, and some of the bed frames had been overturned. The room was windowless, and made entirely of cement. The sight of it made Arthur sick and claustrophobic.

He realised at once he hadn’t seen a single cellblock in the penitentiary. He forgot all the films he’d seen about prisons, and recalled a documentary he’d watched about a war fought not long ago.

Merlin stood in the middle of the room, his back to them. His posture was rigid, and his palms held to his ears like he was trying to block out a noise. Arthur treaded carefully towards him and circled around. Merlin’s eyes were far away, the tip of his nose was red, and his cheeks were streaked with the trails of tears. Arthur’s chest constricted at the sight.

“Merlin?” 

“I can hear them screaming,” he fought out, sounding in pain. 

“Who?” Arthur asked, remembering his paranoia from before. Maybe it had been warranted. Maybe they weren’t alone. He looked around, bringing the torchlight with him. The room was empty, and he heard no screams. Something caught the beam of light: a flash of red from under one of the bed frames. At first, Arthur thought it was blood, and his adrenaline kicked into high gear. However, when he brought the light back, he saw it was solid, but he couldn’t quite make out what the thing was.

He paced towards it, hearing Merlin shudder from behind him. Wallace coaxed in a gentle tone, “Alright, let’s just get outta here, okay, Merlin? The patrol’s long gone. We can leave, man. Go rescue your friends, remember?”

Arthur crouched down next to the bed and fished for the object. When his fingers hit it, it felt coarse but limp, like canvas. He hadn’t expected that. He pulled the thing out. It was a shoe—a trainer, its mate nowhere in sight. It was small, and must have belonged to a child.

Arthur suddenly went very pale. “What is this place?” he whispered again, though he thought he knew the answer.

“A prison camp,” Wallace answered gently, reluctantly giving up on moving Merlin. He corrected, “A death camp. Places like this were built during the War all around Europe, the Soviet Union, the Americas. They were for people who practiced magic.”

Arthur tightened his fist around the small shoe like it was a lifeline. He stood up, and wondered how many children had been held in that room. “Your government approved this?” he asked, disgusted. “The killing of innocent people?”

Wallace shuffled in his shoes, looking guilty, though Arthur knew it couldn’t possibly be his fault. Wallace was young when the War began. But Arthur had to blame someone—someone who was alive during the War—and Wallace was the only one around. 

Besides Merlin. But Merlin was crumpling more and more with each passing moment. 

“Not at first,” Wallace tried to explain. “They were just places to get magic users out of the way for a while. A lot of people blamed magic for the War. With everything going on, they just wanted to feel safe. Places like this were built to hold magic users, to keep an eye on them. They were put to work making weapons and supplies and things for the army.” 

Wallace gave a wary look to Merlin, reminiscent of a person wanting to ensure someone was still asleep before divulging a secret. “But then the bombs went off, and rations were low. And . . . Well . . .” 

Arthur scoffed. He placed the shoe down on the mattress as gently as possible. The undone laces pooled around the rubber soles like broken wings. From his studies of history, he knew there were certain events in which the human race took giant steps backward: when people allowed fear to rule them, to cause them to lash out. Someone always paid the ultimate price during these periods of time. Arthur had hoped, eventually, humanity would learn from their mistakes.

That they would learn from _his_ mistakes, and the mistakes of his father. 

Arthur, like Uther, hadn’t long years of history to learn from. They only had Camelot, and civilians they needed to protect from whoever or whatever was deemed an enemy. Many innocent people had died in Uther’s crusade against magic. Arthur had slaughtered many of them himself. 

But they didn’t know better—they couldn’t know better. All Arthur had was Uther as a model of government, even when his conscience disagreed, and balancing the two was a constant battle. He’d tried so hard to do what he thought was right. 

These governments, so far in the future, must have known their methods were wrong. They had experience to prove it.

“People were scared,” Wallace said meekly.

Arthur rounded on him, sneering. “Are you making excuses for what happened to these people?”

“No,” Wallace said immediately, and sized Arthur up. “Are you?”

Arthur’s argument died in his throat. Suddenly, he could hear screams, too, but his echoed further through time than the one’s Merlin heard.

“They aren’t here anymore,” Merlin muttered.

Arthur felt the weight of Wallace’s stare leave him. He blinked a few times, trying to get himself to focus on the present. Dwelling on the past served no purpose. At least, that’s what he’d always told himself. He brought his gaze to Merlin, too. “We shouldn’t be either.”

“You should have been.” There was nothing accusatory about Merlin’s tone, but it stung anyway.

Merlin sniffled and turned away. He made for the door, ignoring Wallace’s fearful calls of, “Where are you going now?” Arthur quickly followed, not wanting to lose Merlin again. And maybe, just slightly, he wanted to lose himself in the maze of walls. It may have been a sadistic urge, to quell a curiosity of all that was endured here because magic was still seen as evil; but Arthur wanted to know if the prisoners were truly innocents. He hadn’t any details; maybe they were dangerous. Maybe there was merit to Uther’s teachings, even after so long.

Or maybe he was trying to make himself feel better. Whatever he did to punish those with magic in Camelot, it was nothing compared to what happened in these prison camps. His conscience could remain just a _bit_ clean, couldn’t it?

A few paces in front of Arthur, Merlin walked without the aid of the light, seemingly following his own intuition. Arthur wondered if he was in some sort of trance—or under a spell. He didn’t know what sorts of magicians had been kept here. They may have created a trap, and its affect on Merlin was leading them right towards it.

Arthur unsheathed his sword and flashed the torch every which way as they continued on.

“What’s that for?” Wallace asked at his side, eyeing the sword. Arthur had half a mind to order him to ready his own weapon, but he refrained for the time being. 

Instead, he asked, “What became of this place? And the others like it?” Surely, some of the prisoners had lived. People had survived the Nazi camps and the Japanese internment camps in the States; why not these, too? Although, looking around, it was hard to keep up such optimism. How could anyone survive such a place?

“I’m not sure about this one in particular. It was probably just closed down,” Wallace said with a shrug. “These places aren’t technically _illegal_ in any of the provinces, but they’re—uh—frowned upon.”

“Because of the morality of the public or because of the Neos’ influence?”

Wallace’s winced. “Both?”

Arthur kept his eyes on Merlin’s back as Merlin led them around the watchtower and down some rickety steps.

“Alright,” Wallace admitted, “before they were closed down, the Neos liberated a lot of them. It’s how they got most of their followers.” Arthur wasn’t sure how to react to that. If they had been so inclined to join the Neo’s quest for domination, maybe they belonged in lock up. Arthur could justify their anger—but revenge? He’d seen enough revenge to know it was a cycle: a spinning wheel forever in motion, one side chasing the other but never catching up.

“It’s how they got all the guns, too,” Arthur realised Wallace was saying. “Turns out, it wasn’t such a great idea to have the prisoners making weapons, especially when those prisoners had outside support from terrorists.” Arthur could only imagine the riots that must have broken out in the camps. “Now, they have the good weapons and most of us are stuck with these—,” he gestured to the blade at his side, and Arthur tried not to be offended as he gripped his tighter. 

Besides, the claim wasn’t true. Not only the Neos had guns anymore. “I’ve heard everyone in the Midlands State has a gun,” Arthur told him. 

“Yeah, well, pretty much all of them are in the military. Everyone has to serve for at least five years after they turn sixteen. President Darby’s rules,” Wallace countered. He seemed to disapprove, but Arthur didn’t see anything wrong with it. The Midlands’ Army was the second biggest military force in Britain, next to the Neos. They had a right to defend their home from the threat next door. Their province was right beneath the Neo’s territory. 

“The people of the Midlands elected President Darby,” Arthur reminded him. The man was supposedly a war hero who had led campaigns throughout the east during the War. Arthur had seen him on a news bulletin once. He was a thin man with dark skin and a fake leg to supplement the one he’d lost in battle. Arthur didn’t know much about him, but he thought Darby might have made a suitable ally to Camelot had he been alive in those days.

“Whatever,” Wallace grumbled.

“Here,” Merlin said suddenly. Arthur hadn’t been paying attention and nearly rammed into his back. Merlin had stopped in front of a building that, Arthur realised upon looking over his shoulder, was a significant distance from the base of the watchtower and must have been on the opposite side of the camp from where they’d entered. Arthur peered up at the building, though _hut_ was probably a better description. Like the others, it was made of stone, but it was so small it must have only been one room. A long, metal chimney jutted out from the roof.

Arthur’s breath caught. Maybe he hadn’t been better than the people who’d built these camps. Maybe he’d been exactly the same.

He put away his sword. Suddenly, it felt disrespectful to have it at the ready.

“They’re in here,” said Merlin. The door banged and whined on its hinges when it opened. Arthur wanted to call after him, to drag him back to the car and get out of there. Merlin didn’t need to see what was on the other side of the door. None of them did. It was in the past, and they could do nothing about it anymore.

But Merlin disappeared inside, and Arthur grabbed Wallace’s shirt to hold him back. “Was Merlin ever in one of these places?” he asked quickly, before he could change his mind. He’d wanted to ask it ever since he learned what the camp was.

Wallace eyed the door mournfully. “Honestly? No idea. But my gut says no.” Arthur wanted to be relieved. It was a good thing, after all, but Wallace wasn’t acting like it was. He shrugged a little. “He’s always been too good at hiding.”

Arthur let his hand fall to his side. He didn’t realise how long Merlin’s life had been until that moment.

On the other side of the door, three furnaces the size of morgue drawers sat in a row on the opposite wall. The one on the far end hung open, a pile of soot and ash still inside. Merlin stood in the middle of the room, watching the open door like he was waiting for something to happen.

Arthur pressed into the cramped space and narrowed his eyes at the furnace. Something about the ash didn’t sit right with him. With a wary side-glance at Merlin, he made for the furnace and leaned in to be level with it.

The cabinet was narrow but deep, long enough to fit an adult lying down. Arthur hoped the bodies had already been dead by the time they went inside, but his stomach churned with doubt. After all, how does one kill a witch if not burn them?

The walls inside the drawer were charred black and greyed by the smoke—but they were too black, too grey. The ash that sat at the bottom was powdery, like a campfire that had just been put out, and the bone fragments mixed in were clean and did not appear brittle. 

“It’s fresh,” he said, astounded. He remembered the padlock on the gates. Everything else in the prison was old. It had been closed before Arthur’s resurrection. He stood up straight. “How is that possible?" 

“The ban on magic is enforced here,” Merlin said like it explained everything. His expression remained lifeless, despite the tear that fell from his lashes and swooped down his cheek. Arthur knit his brows together, but Merlin didn’t elaborate.

Near the door, Wallace shuffled uncomfortably. “Witch burning isn’t technically illegal, either, but no one does it. But there are rumours about what goes on in the Republic. Brown is really anti-magic. Some people say, if anyone’s suspected of using it, they’re executed. Them and their families. And their bodies are brought here to get rid of the evidence." 

Arthur’s first reaction was to get angry. Chancellor Brown was a coward for keeping such a thing secret, in the knowledge that the Neos would never stand for it.

“Their families?” Arthur echoed. More innocent people. “How can your uncle turn a blind eye to these rumours?”

Wallace pressed his lips together and cocked his head to the side, as though to convey that Arthur already knew why. It wasn’t worth the fight that could break out. The Republic’s affairs were no one else’s business—especially when it came to magic users. Who would mourn for a Neo-Druid sympathizer? Who would care enough to have a potential war broken out to save their lives? 

Wallace didn’t look any less guilty, but he didn’t look like he was about to do anything about it, either.

Arthur rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted, and this detour hadn’t done anything for his weariness. He’d had enough of this world and all its excuses. He was tired of the War being used as a scapegoat for inaction. He wanted his world back, but he didn’t know how to find it again. It seemed best to start by getting his men back alive. 

He pushed down the conflict of Uther’s voice and his own conscience brewing in his chest, choosing to deal with it at a later date. “We have to move if we want to get to Tintagel before sunrise,” he decided.

Wallace nodded, seeming relieved that the conversation was over. He immediately opened the door and walked out. Merlin, however, didn’t even flinch. Arthur stood in front of him and hesitated before slapping a firm hand to Merlin’s shoulder. “Come on, Merlin,” he said.

“I was supposed to help them,” Merlin whispered like it was an apology. “It was my destiny.”

Arthur took in a breath, knowing now wasn’t the time for such a debate, not when Merlin was certain he’d failed his life’s purpose. “You will,” not because of destiny, but because of who Merlin was. “ _We_ will,” Arthur said, trying to show his support, and the way Merlin’s eyes snapped to his was far too hopeful. 

Arthur could practically see Uther shaking his head in displeasure. His intestines twisted like they did every time he knew he’d disappointed his father.

“Promise?” Merlin asked.

Arthur tightened his jaw. Uther was not there. It was Merlin casting his lost gaze on Arthur, and Arthur couldn’t bear to disappoint him, either. He nodded stiffly, and Merlin seemed to accept it. He gave one last look to the furnace and turned to the exit. 

Arthur paused, but he couldn’t look behind him. He was too afraid he’d hear those ancient screams again if he did.

 

///

 

Merlin didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until Arthur shook him awake. When they left the prison camp, he’d curled up in the back seat and closed his eyes to meditate in hopes of regaining control of himself. The spirits of the camp had overwhelmed him. All the pain and death buried in the walls had seized him the instant they drove through the gates. It borrowed his energy to bring the place back to life, to call forward the lost souls and to reignite the magic leftover from their deaths. As Merlin ebbed after the echoes of their ghosts, he listened to their cries for help.

_I was supposed to help them. It was my destiny._

Those who practiced magic should have been free long before the camps opened. Merlin could have changed everything—changed _history_ —while in Camelot. If only he’d listened. If only he knew what he did now. 

_You will._ We _will._  

The promise had grounded Merlin. He reminded himself that he had a second chance. He couldn’t help those who had suffered, but he’d make sure none of their like ever would again. Merlin couldn’t dwell on history, not when Arthur was promising him the future. 

During his meditation, he must have drifted off. It was something he hadn’t done since his days in Udaipur, when Guru Vilochan would “accidentally” bump into him to wake him up. But his experience at the camp drained him. His mind, body, and magic needed to rejuvenate, and the camp had brought back old memories he’d rather forget. 

Although, he knew he was drained even before he stepped foot into the camp. In the previous days, what little sleep he managed to get was disrupted by unquiet dreams. And the waking world wasn’t much better.

Groggily, Merlin got out of the car and swung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Wallace had dropped them off near the centre of the village in front of something Merlin hadn’t seen in years: a pastry shop.

“Stay out of sight. We don’t know what eyes Mordred has watching the village,” Arthur told Wallace. “And keep your walkie on. Be ready to collect us once we have my men.”

“Got it. Be the getaway car driver. I can do that,” Merlin heard Wallace reply, but he was barely listening. He peered down the winding road of the silent village before them. Most of the buildings were painted white or made of stone, and all of them seemed to be in use. He saw no _condemned building_ signage, caved in ceilings or boarded up windows, or signs of vandalism. There were boutiques, too, selling clothes, books, and treats. The steeple of a church rose above the rooftops. It was like stepping into the past. 

The cold breeze lifted up Merlin’s jacket as it kicked up off the nearby sea. It used to be more temperate in Cornwall, Merlin remembered, even at night; but he hadn’t been there since the start of the War, and he supposed many climates had changed since then. 

“Okay, do it,” Arthur said, turning to Merlin after Wallace drove away, and the crunching of the tires on gravel was the only sound Merlin heard.

Merlin looked at him quizzically. “What?” 

“Sense the—,” Arthur looked around in suspicion and dropped his voice, even though no one was about, “the magic of whatever relic Mordred is using.” He gestured with his hands. “Go on.”

Merlin pulled an incredulous face. He might have been slightly offended if he didn’t feel so suddenly guilty. “It’s not a parlour trick. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, then how does it _work_?” Arthur asked impatiently. 

“It’s not something I can just turn on and off!” Merlin answered in ways of an excuse, trying not to sound cagy.

Arthur didn’t even seem to notice. He placed his hands on his hips and looked down the street. “Fifteen hundred years and you’re still completely useless. Fine. Come on, then. We’d better find my men before Mordred finds us.”

Merlin trudged after him, and did his best to push the gloom out. He couldn’t afford to dwell.

It was nearly four in the morning, and all the shops and residence nestled in the distance were dark. However, as they walked, they saw a few candles and gas lanterns still burning in the pubs’ windows. Electricity was unreliable in the major cities, and impossible to find anywhere else. The sweet scent of burning firewood tickled at Merlin’s nose; and, for a moment, he was back in one Camelot’s outlying villages, walking side-by-side with Arthur as they spent the night after a hunt that led them far from home.

They passed the old visitor centre, which was probably the only building in the village that was closed down for good. Giant car parks, once packed with the cars of tourists, were vacant and had weeds breaking through the tarmac. One of them looked like it had been converted into an outdoor marketplace, but all the tents were tied up for the night; another had RVs and trailer homes permanently parked in a makeshift community. 

They came upon grand stone building, adorned with statues, battered flags, and rusted suits of armour. _King Arthur’s Great Halls_ , the sign proclaimed. Merlin watched Arthur’s brow quirk as he caught sight of it, but he said nothing. After all, buildings bearing his name or some other allusion to the legends were commonplace, and no longer fazed him—save for endowing a soft smugness to his demeanour for the rest of the day. 

However, as they walked on, an allotment of storefronts seemed to have his namesake. _Round Table Restaurant_ , _Avalon Sweets_ , _Camelot Grocer_. Up ahead was _King Arthur’s Arms Inn_. A pub was attached to it, and appeared to have more late-night patrons inside than any other pub they’d seen.

“Merlin,” Arthur finally said conversationally, “I don’t mean to sound narcissistic—.”

“I have a feeling you’re about to.”

“But why is everyone in this village obsessed with me?”

Merlin bit his lower lip to suppress his humour. He was feeling more like himself than he had during their detour at the prison camp, and somewhat more awake than he had felt in days, and Arthur’s befuddlement amused him. “According to legend, Tintagel Castle is where you were born,” he answered, only because Arthur’s reaction was bound to be funnier than his confusion.

Arthur’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped in horror. “I was born in _Camelot_!” 

Merlin snorted. “Don’t tell the locals that. They really capitalized on you.”

“Clearly,” Arthur groaned. It only made Merlin chuckle. Agitated, Arthur huffed, “I’m glad you’re having fun, Merlin.”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t build the village,” he defended. “This place became a bit of tourist trap off your name. People from all over came to stare at a pile of rocks that used to be a castle." 

“Well, I suppose I should expect no less after all the lies _you_ let people spread about me,” Arthur huffed.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to set them straight next time.”

“You better had. But there won’t be any stories of my great deeds to tell if Mordred kills all my men first,” Arthur reminded him pointedly. He gripped Merlin by the shirt and steered him toward the inn and pub. Even during such a late hour, there were still a number of people drowning in their drinks. 

Despite the reverence this town gave Arthur, none of the locals would know the real thing if he hit them over the head with Excalibur. No one even looked up at him as he and Merlin entered the pub. Those in grumbled conversation around the tables kept their heads ducked like they were discussing conspiracies, and the patrons littering the booths and bar kept to themselves. Roasting meat wafted in from the kitchen, causing Merlin’s stomach to rumble and his mouth to water. Suddenly, the provisions of salted jerky and lab-grown beans he’d packed were wholly unappetizing. 

Arthur sauntered up to the bar, where a young woman was drinking alone. He left a vacant seat between them and offered her somewhat of an awkward smile when she met his eyes. She didn’t return it, and angled her body away from him. Merlin rested at Arthur’s shoulder, but decided to keep standing. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be in the pub for very long. He caught the bartender’s gaze and held up two fingers so his and Arthur’s presence wouldn’t look suspicious. 

The bartender gave him a wary scowl, but poured their drinks and set them in front of them. “Haven’t seen you two in here before,” came the inevitable. 

“We’re just visiting,” Arthur told him. 

“Yeah? Come to gawk at that tart king’s birthplace?”

Merlin tried really hard not to laugh, but a choked scoff managed to get through. 

Arthur was bristling. “You seem to have no trouble making money off his name.”

The bartender shrugged. “A few of the locals still believe the sham. Good for business.”

“Good for—!”

“We’re actually looking for someone,” Merlin interrupted before Arthur really did hit someone over the head with Excalibur. He unfolded the police sketch of Mordred and slid it across the bar. The woman next to Arthur nosily studied it out of the corner of her eye. 

The bartender barely even glimpsed at the sketch before saying, “Haven’t seen him.”

“Are you certain?” Arthur pressed. “He’s never come in here—?”

“If he ever came in here, I’d know about it,” the bartender huffed. “And he hasn’t. I don’t know what he’s done, but don’t you boys cause any trouble in my pub. Got it? I don’t need the militia knocking down my door.” He gave them another glare that was probably meant to look threatening before storming off to the other end of the bar. 

“He doesn’t seem to like us very much,” Merlin said, and took a pull of his beer. It was fowl and bitter, and he elected not to drink any more of it.

“Did you expect him to trust us? When was the last time this place saw an outsider?” Arthur said through gritted teeth. 

“Which is why Mordred would stick out like a sore thumb. Someone must have seen him,” Merlin reasoned.

The woman next to them cleared her throat in interest. She leaned in slightly, but kept her crossed legs on the opposite side of her. “What’s he done to you?” she asked.

Merlin and Arthur exchanged a quick look, silently deciding whether or not to answer. But they were in the village to find Mordred, and that required a little help from the locals. “He owes us money,” Merlin decided to say. 

The woman lifted a brow. “Really? Doesn’t seem the type.”

“You know him?” Arthur immediately exclaimed.

“My mum’s the butcher. Every other week, he pays us to deliver him some chops and some of the old bread we feed to the pigs,” she told them.

“Deliver them where?”

“Depends. How much money does he owe you?”

Arthur deflated in annoyance. Merlin couldn’t say he hadn’t expected the hindrance. It’s why he’d conjured up some bills before they left London. He pulled two twenty-pound notes from his pocket and slapped them on the bar between them. 

Unamused, the woman wrinkled a nostril. “No wonder he hasn’t paid you back. Not worth the trouble.”

Arthur scoffed, and looked like he was about to argue but must have decided not to at the last moment. He waved his hand in surrender. “Just give it to her.”

Merlin put down another twenty.

“That big old hotel up by the ruins,” the woman said, pocketing the money.

“Have you seen anyone else with him?” Merlin asked, hoping to get more information out of her. The hotel was a large one, and had probably closed without the influx of tourists the village used to receive. It had a lot of rooms to fill, and Mordred may not have been alone. 

“Why, do they owe you money, too?”

“For god’s—!” Arthur bit out. 

“She doesn’t know anything else,” Merlin cut him off. He met Arthur’s eye and nodded to the exit. “Come on.” He took one last sip of his drink, just in case it gone any better. It didn’t, so they left money for the bartender and went back out into the dark street.

“You don’t think she was lying, do you?” Arthur asked.

Merlin shook his head. The woman had no reason to lie. She had no allegiance to Mordred, only to the money that would pay for her drinks.

“How can you tell? Is it the relic? Have you got something? Is it close?”

Merlin bit at a dead flap of skin on his lower lip until it pulled and bled. He looked anywhere but at Arthur as he tried to come up with an excuse. He couldn’t sense the relic, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t close. There was a different reason, one Merlin didn’t want to get into at the moment. Or ever.

“I dunno,” he said lamely.

“Well, what do you _know_?”

“I don’t know, Arthur! I don’t even know what the relic is!” Merlin took in a deep, calming breath and started again, “We know he’s in the hotel. If we want to make it out of here before sunrise, we should start there.” 

Arthur didn’t put up a fight. He gestured for Merlin to lead the way, and Merlin looked around to get his bearings. The hotel was on the cliffs near the sea. Merlin had seen it once a few decades ago when he was passing through. The Camelot Castle Hotel was a bit of an eyesore, really—a monolith of a building that resembled what looked like a child’s drawing of a castle. 

The hotel had another downfall: it stood apart from the rest of the village, with the ocean to its back, an empty field on one side, and the wide open space of Tintagel Castle’s park on the other. Anyone looking out a window in the hotel could see someone coming a mile away.

Their best bet was to walk through the front door. Small, abandoned office buildings were situated off to the side of the main entrance. If they stayed off the drive up to the hotel, Merlin hoped they could remain unseen. 

They snuck along the back garden fence of the last house on the street before the hotel. The stretch between it and the office buildings felt like a hundred miles. The unruly grass was up to Merlin’s knees, and it danced in the wind whooshing off the waves below. Above them, the moon was nothing but a sliver, and Merlin silently thanked whoever was listening for the good fortune. 

Arthur took out his sword and, with his free hand, made hand signals to Merlin. Two fingers held together, pointing towards the offices; a nod to Merlin, and a flat palm levelled to Merlin’s chest; the same hand pushing the air down.

Merlin blinked and nodded. He thought he knew what Arthur wanted him to do. Arthur started moving, and Merlin made to follow. Immediately, Arthur hissed and stopped in his tracks.

“Merlin!” he groaned under his breath. “You stay _here_ until I’m across.”

“Right.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes like he didn’t know why he bothered. “Stay low.”

Arthur hunched over and moved as quickly as he could across the lawn. Merlin kept his eyes on the hotel, looking out for the shivering of a curtain or a sudden light appearing in a window, but all remained dark. 

When Arthur made it to the office building, he twirled his sword in his wrist as though preparing for a fight. He peered over the corner of the wall, and relaxed. He beckoned Merlin over.

Trying to keep his eyes on both Arthur and the hotel while crouching and running wasn’t the easiest thing to do. It had been a while since Merlin had to be so clandestine, but it gave him a faint rush. How many times had he and Arthur snuck into an enemy castle on a rescue mission? He probably couldn’t count the events on both hands. He was surprised how easily he’d slipped back into the situation, and how right it felt, even if the hotel was only vaguely castle-looking. 

“What are you smiling about?” Arthur reproved when Merlin made it safely to his side. Merlin shook his head and tried to control his expression. He hadn’t realised he’d been grinning.

Arthur took Merlin’s wrist, making him follow as he tiptoed along the far wall of the building. In the distance, the ruins of the castle were black mounds in the night, a starless void. The waves hissed as they broke against the rocks beneath the cliffs. The entrance archway to the hotel was only a yard away. Merlin went first and unlocked the front door with a wave of his hand.

The inside of the hotel looked like something out of a ghost story. The chandeliers were cocooned in cobwebs, filthy white sheets covered the furniture, and chunks of plaster were missing from the walls. The granite pillars of the arches dividing the rooms had lost their red colour, and their spidery marbling looked like a disease. The ceramic decorative pots were empty, their plants long decayed into the dirt. A gust of wind howled as it swept down the fireplace, kicking up some ash and making the miniature suits of armour next to it shudder. Everything was layered in thick dust. 

It looked nothing like Camelot—except perhaps for the most prominent feature in centre of the room, situated in front of a crumbling staircase. A round table: large and engraved with the names of the men that were currently being held as prisoners. A jagged crack split the table in half down the middle. The two sides had collapsed in on each other.

Merlin listened out for footsteps or voices. There was nothing but the creaking bones of the building in the wind.

Arthur walked slowly through the rooms, leaving footprints in the dust on the carpets. Merlin went directly to the stairs. He gripped the banister posts on both sides, put one foot on the first step, and leaned all his weight into it. He was prepared for his foot to go through the wood, but it held firm. “They’re safe,” he told Arthur. Still, they took their time getting up the flight, constantly toeing the next step with precaution. 

“Merlin!” Arthur hissed when a step creaked too loudly beneath Merlin’s foot.

“Sorry!”

The first floor consisted of one long corridor with dozens of doors on each side. In the middle, two adjacent hallways led to the opposite wings of the hotel. At the end, a broken _way out_ sign pointed to an emergency stairwell behind a thick metal door. It was hidden away, and perfect for getting to the other floors unseen. 

“Not getting any funny feelings are you?” Arthur whispered hopefully. Merlin pressed his lips together and shook his head apologetically. Arthur sighed. “We’ll just have to find them the hard way then.” 

“By looking with your eyes? I’ve spoiled you,” Merlin tried to tease as they made for the opposite side of the corridor. 

The whole way, Merlin listened out for any other sounds. It wasn’t until they were about to pass the adjacent hallway did he hear something from around the corner. Footsteps sounded a moment before a door slammed open.

Merlin grabbed Arthur by the back of his shirt and pulled him back behind the corner just in time. The motion may have taken Arthur by surprise, but he didn’t protest. They pushed their backs against the wall to make themselves as small as possible. All Merlin could hear was his heartbeat, and he was certain the sound was echoing outside of him. He held his breath, half in anticipation and half to keep quiet.

And then he heard a voice. It was female, but deep and dripping with self-importance. The sound of it snaked through the air like a winter wind, leaving frost and frozen death wherever it carried. Merlin recognised it instantly. It stopped his noisily banging heart in its tracks.

Next to him, Arthur drew in a sharp breath. He’d recognised it, too.

“He will be finished by daybreak. I will retrieve him then,” Morgause’s voice said. Merlin remembered chasing Mordred to the ally next to the marketplace, where Mordred had disappeared out of nowhere. He’d done the same on the CCTV footage of a crime scene. Both times, a gust of wind accompanied the escape. 

It had been Morgause. She had mastered the ability of transporting herself and others with magic. Merlin had seen her do it once before, in Camelot, after he’d poisoned Morgana. He remembered the wind that accompanied it, a gale force that nearly knocked him over. 

Morgause’s footsteps were in stride with another set, heavier than she. “I do not believe he will fail again,” she said. “The time has finally come.” 

“How can you be so certain?” said the other voice, this one male but equally as snide and chilling. There was something about the sound of it that suggested darkness. Merlin thought it, too, sounded familiar, but he could not place it.

Morgause’s voice got further away as they headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. Merlin was relieved they weren’t coming their way.

“There are only two others now posed to return,” she said, “and I do not believe the king has a role to play in the events yet to unfold.” 

Arthur peered around the corner, but only slightly, as though he wanted to see for himself that Morgause was really alive. His shoulders tensed.

“And if he returns, anyway?” asked the man.

There was a beat of consideration before Morgause answered arrogantly, “Then, I shall create a role for him myself.” 

Another door opened and closed. Merlin strained his ears to listen out for any sign they might come back. There were only receding muffled tones, and then silence. Arthur stood up from the wall and drew in a steadying breath.

“Morgause and King Cenred,” he told Merlin severely.

Merlin’s stomach dropped. “Cenred, too?” He didn’t wanted to believe it, but then he remembered there were eight bodies Mordred left in his wake. He wondered how long Morgause and Cenred had been back in the world, and what their purpose was now. 

“Mordred didn’t even know them, Merlin. Why would he resurrect them?” Arthur said, just barely containing his worry.

Merlin shook his head. Morgause and Cenred’s presence only brought more questions.

Apparently, Arthur decided to worry about it later. He nodded sternly to himself before starting back down the hall.

The back stairwell was made of concrete, and was much sturdier than the rest of the building. Merlin leaned over the railing and looked down, where the two levels beneath them ended in a cement landing. He looked up; the crisscross of the railings hurt his eyes as they stretched up so high they appeared to narrow. And that was only one wing of the hotel. The building was enormous, and there was no telling where the knights might be, if they were there at all. They could cover more ground if they split up, but Merlin wouldn’t dare leave Arthur, especially with Morgause and Cenred skulking about. 

At least, Mordred was not present. If Morgause had been speaking of him, he was attempting another resurrection. Merlin tried not to shudder thinking about another life they couldn’t save, and who Mordred would bring back as a result.

Merlin wished he could reach out with his magic and find Mordred. Preventing him from resurrecting Morgana should have been their highest priority; but Arthur would never leave without his men.

“To the basement,” Arthur decided, sounding sure.

Merlin followed him down the flight as he questioned, “How do you know?”

Arthur sounded impatient, like he always had when Merlin would ask him something while on a quest. _Obviously,_ _Merlin_ , Arthur’s words seemed to say. “Dungeons are always below, Merlin.”

The hotel’s basement certainly seemed like a place to keep captives. Once they got past the heavy door with the faded _personnel only_ sign, there wasn’t much but a warren of dust and cement. The torch in Arthur’s hand was their only light source. The narrow passageway they walked down was lined with piles of cardboard boxes, crates, and metal shelving units loaded with rat poison and cleaning supplies.

There was a caretaker’s office the size of a broom cupboard. Merlin peered inside, but all he saw was an abandoned cheap desk with some cockroaches scuffling through the papers. He groaned at them in disgust, and Arthur rolled his eyes. 

“Never seen a bug before, Merlin?” he chided. 

“Easy for you to say,” Merlin hissed back. “Those things survived a nuclear holocaust—just like everyone knew they would!”

Granted, lots of things survived the War, and Arthur was no doubt about to argue that before another groan sounded. This one did not come from Merlin. It echoed off the damp walls. Arthur’s sword flew up at the ready as both their necks snapped in that direction. Merlin’s skin crackled like lightening. 

With two fingers, Arthur signalled forward. As they inched through the shadows, Merlin hovered close enough to Arthur that he was nearly touching his back. There was another groan. It sounded pained. 

The basement widened out into a broiler room, filled mostly with cracked machinery that probably hadn’t been used since the hotel closed. Four bodies were scattered about, and Merlin thought them dead until he saw the thick black chains binding them to the pipes and walls.

“My god,” Arthur breathed as Merlin blinked into focus. He rushed up to one of the bodies, the one that had been groaning. It took Merlin a moment to recognise who it was, and his breath caught when it finally hit home. 

“Leon,” Arthur pleaded, kneeling down next to him. He placed his sword on the ground to get a better look at the chains on Leon’s wrist. He cradled Leon’s head in his hand. 

Leon’s eyes fluttered. It looked like a struggle, but he eventually opened them. He breathed out Arthur’s name. It was a small, delirious thing, dreamlike and disbelieving. It was full of relief and a sense of safety. It broke Merlin’s heart.

A sad but reassuring smile spread on Arthur’s face as he gave Leon a small pat on the shoulder. “It’s me. Let’s sit you up.”

Merlin looked to the others in the room. Leon was the only one of them in his Camelot chainmail. Percival’s mail was different. The straps that bound it together were cheap leather, and the padding he wore beneath it was blue instead of Camelot’s red. Gwaine and Elyan were in common clothes: gray tunics and brown vests, leather for Gwaine while Elyan’s was of thin material and hooded.

There was no way Mordred would have provided the clothes, because nothing like them existed anymore. They must have been the clothes they’d come back wearing. 

“Merlin, do something about these chains!” Arthur hissed through his teeth, bringing Merlin back to himself. He knelt down at Arthur’s side and inspected the iron around Leon’s chapped and bloody wrists.

Merlin held his palm over the chains, letting his magic give them a cursory inspection. The iron was strong, but there was something else that tingled at the back of Merlin’s mind. It was stronger than the metal could ever be. “They’re enchanted,” he said. 

Arthur worried, “So, you can’t get them off?” 

“I don’t know.” Merlin hovered his palm over the chains. He thought an incantation, and his eyes flashed. To his surprise, the shackles fell away instantly. He hadn’t expected them to. The spell was the simplest he’d known, and he’d only tried it to test the waters. He wondered just what the nature of the chains’ enchantment was.

Arthur, however, did not concern himself with it. “Free the others. I’ll wake them.”

Merlin moved to Elyan and Percival, unbinding them with the same ease. At last, he went to Gwaine. He knelt down next to him, looking over his old friend with care. Gwaine was paler and thinner than the others. Merlin realised that he must have been held prisoner the longest. There were dark circles under his closed eyes and dried blood from the chaffing on his neck. His fingernails were broken stubs, probably from trying to wear away his restraint.

“Gwaine,” Merlin said under his breath, hearing his voice crack. There was a lump in his throat, and tears flooded his eyes. Gwaine’s chest wasn’t rising and falling. When Merlin leaned in close, he couldn’t hear Gwaine taking in any breath.

Behind him, he heard Percival and Elyan stirring. Their initial words passed through Merlin without meaning, but he thought he heard Percival say, “I can walk. I’ve got him.”

“Merlin, we have to move,” Arthur’s words pierced through him.

Merlin blinked away his tears. His eyes flashed and the collar around Gwaine’s neck opened. Merlin tore it away, making Gwaine’s body jerk like a ragdoll and slump even more. With shaking fingers, he checked Gwaine’s pulse. 

There was a beat. Shallow, but there. Merlin breathed a tripping sigh of relief.

Suddenly, Gwaine started. He thrashed, and Merlin shielded himself with his arms against it.

“Gwaine, it’s me! It’s me! Gwaine!”

Arthur was at suddenly at his side, scolding Merlin to be quiet while simultaneously fighting to grab Gwaine’s arms. Eventually, the burst of adrenaline left Gwaine, and he settled. Merlin moved in closer, watching Gwaine’s weighted eyes open. At first, they were out of focus, but then they found Merlin. 

“What is this?” Gwaine croaked.

Merlin tried to smile. It wasn’t easy. “It’s Merlin.”

Gwaine shook his head. “This is a trick.” 

Merlin’s smile fell. He looked at Arthur, both of them wondering what kind of torture the knights had endured over the weeks. 

“Gwaine, it’s Arthur. Can you hear me?” Arthur grabbed Gwaine’s shoulder. “This isn’t a trick. We’ve come to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Gwaine took in a few laboured breaths as he decided what to believe. His eyes flashed to Merlin. “You look terrible,” he croaked in ways of an answer. 

A pushed laugh deflated Merlin. “Looked in a mirror lately?”

“Get him up,” Arthur instructed, and once more disappeared. 

Merlin helped Gwaine to his feet and supported his weight. He looked to the others. Arthur had Leon’s arm slung over his shoulder, and Leon still looked like he wasn’t completely awake. Percival was weary and his feet dragged, but he supported Elyan, whose head flopped and jerked as he struggled to keep awake.

“Let’s go,” said Arthur, turning back from where they came.

However, Gwaine grumbled as best he could, “Wait, wait, wait. We can’t. There’s still—We need to get . . . Lancelot.”

Merlin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. 

_Lancelot_. 

His eyes flew around the room, looking for some sign of him. He was nowhere.

_Lancelot_.

Arthur echoed the name. “Where? Gwaine, where is he?”

Gwaine shook his head. He was starting to get heavier as he slumped against Merlin.

“We don’t know,” Percival answered. “He’s down here somewhere, but they’ve kept him apart from us.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide as he searched the walls as though looking for some plan written on them. He wouldn’t leave any of them behind, but the rest of them were in no condition to search for Lancelot. They needed to get somewhere safe and hide until Wallace could get to them.

Merlin dragged Gwaine forward and told Arthur, “There’s a sea cave at the bottom of the cliffs. Take them there and wait for me. I’ll find Lancelot.”

“Merlin, no,” Arthur said resolutely.

Merlin was already shifting Gwaine to Percival, who hoisted Gwaine’s deadweight over his shoulder. He swayed a little, but caught his balance.

“You have to,” Merlin reasoned. “I will meet you there. I promise.”

Arthur hated the plan. He cursed under his breath. But then he nodded. “Don’t go causing trouble,” he said, meaning _be careful_.

Something slid nervously in Merlin’s stomach at the thought of leaving Arthur’s side. “Hurry up and get out of here,” meaning _be careful_.

Arthur motioned for Percival to follow him, taking the light with him. Engulfed in darkness, Merlin lit a flame in his palm. It formed an orb that rose from his hand and bobbed gently about his head. He shot off in the opposite direction as Arthur, and the glow zipped after him as though it were on a lead. 

He slowed when he reached another narrow passage. He walked down it for what seemed like minutes, opening doors to empty cupboards or cluttered storage space. When he came upon another flight of stairs, he realised he must have been close to the opposite end of the hotel.

He listened out for any signs of life as he sidled along. He didn’t hear any scuffle coming from upstairs, and he chose to believe that meant Arthur had gotten out without incident. 

He was quickly running out of places to check, and something nagged in the back of his head telling him Lancelot was not there. Perhaps Mordred had tricked the knights into believing he was. Maybe he was just a fevered dream.

Or maybe he wasn’t in the basement. He could have been anywhere in the hotel. Merlin wanted to believe with his whole being that Lancelot was alive. Somehow, the thought of Lancelot with them made whatever was to come seem that much more bearable. In Camelot, Merlin hadn’t felt so alone with Lancelot around. Merlin blamed himself for Lancelot’s death. The wound of losing him had never really healed; it only formed a scar that Merlin learned to ignore as the years progressed. 

He resolved not to give up hope just yet. He checked another door, this one leading to the hotel’s laundry room. Inside was a line of industrial washers, some with the doors hanging open and sheets spilling from them like the panting tongues of dogs. Canvas carts had mounds of bed linens haphazardly filling them, while long tin tables were caked in brown dust or overturned. 

Merlin looked to the corner of the room, his eyes following the pipes that ran up from the laundry machines. In the corner, Lancelot hung from a valve. His arms were stretched high above his head, which hung to his chest, and the tips of his toes just barely touched the floor.

He was in a chainmail shirt, the neckline low to reveal the V-cut maroon padding beneath. His tan trousers were layered in filth.

Merlin’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of him. “Lancelot!” he called, and bounded towards him. The first thing he did was lift Lancelot’s face, cupping his cheeks between his hands. Lancelot’s eyes were as dark and piercing as Merlin remembered; but they were slightly glazed over, and opened as though he’d been sleeping.

“Merlin?” he asked hoarsely. Something like relief tugged on his lips, like he knew he was safe now.

“Is it really you?” Merlin asked with wonder in his tone and joy cracking his cheeks. Then his words sunk in, and suspicion rose within him like a flood.

The last time Merlin had seen him, Lancelot had not been himself. He’d been a phantom under Morgana’s control. It was possible this was still the case, and his presence was some subterfuge. Merlin considered the chains and how easily their enchantment had broken. Perhaps that had been by design. Perhaps Mordred _wanted_ them to take Lancelot with them, and the others were freed just to make the trickery believable.

Lancelot scrunched his face and shook his head weakly. “I don’t understand.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes and scanned Lancelot, trying to see through him. There was died blood on the links around his shoulder. Merlin peered around Lancelot’s back to see there was a wound beneath the layers that had closed and reopened many times judging by the bloodstains. It looked like a stab wound, and it could have been infected if it hadn’t been treated. 

Hope and doubt were at war inside of Merlin. If Lancelot were still a Shade, Merlin would be playing into Mordred’s plan. But if weren’t . . . If it was truly him . . .

Merlin decided to take the risk. He would keep an eye on Lancelot until he could know for sure.

“I’m going to free you,” Merlin warned. Lancelot struggled to nod and prepared to catch himself.

When his wrists fell from their chains, Merlin caught Lancelot heavily beneath the arms and helped him get upright. “Can you walk?”

Lancelot rolled his shoulders and winced in pain, but he said through laboured breaths, “I think so.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Lancelot grabbed Merlin’s arm, and for a fraction of a second Merlin took it for a hostile act. However, before he could unleash his magic, he realised Lancelot was only halting him. 

“We must get the others,” he said nobly, despite the fact that the colour was draining from him by the second.

“We have. Arthur’s got them. We’re going to meet them now,” Merlin assured him. Lancelot seemed satisfied, and they moved back into the corridor as quickly as he could walk. 

“Morgause and Cenred have been keeping us here,” he said. When Merlin looked back, he saw the thin layer of sweat gleaming on Lancelot’s forehead in the pale lowlight. Every movement must have been a struggle, but Merlin knew better than to offer his support. Lancelot would never want to be an inconvenience, and arguing the point would be a waste of time they didn’t have. Morgause would figure out the prisoners were gone sooner rather than later. 

“Yeah,” Merlin said, leading them to the stairwell he’d passed earlier.

“I thought they were dead.”

Merlin let out a snort that might have been a laugh. “No shit.” He quickly realised how rude that must have sounded. He didn’t turn to see the stunned look on Lancelot’s face. “I’ll explain later,” he promised, still wary that Lancelot wasn’t real. He didn’t want to say anything that could get back to Mordred.

The stairwell took them to a hallway lined with guest rooms on the ground floor, where Merlin extinguished the orb of light. He checked the posted plaque of the hotel’s layout, and it told him there was a fire exit nearby. They slipped out of the building without obstacle. Over the Atlantic, the sun was painting fiery reds and purples that blanketed the world in the morning’s glow.

Quietly, they made for the ruins near the water. Merlin checked over his shoulder at the hotel every now and again, searching for movement within. Faint candlelight was casting an orange glow in one of the upper windows, but the curtains were drawn and no shadow lurked.

The steps down the cliffs to the beach had been washed away, and clamouring downwards was treacherous. The waves below pounded against the rocks, hissing and sending constant sprays of white foam. The tide swelled high up on the sand. With only a few stumbles and minor scratches on their palms, they managed to get to the bottom of the cliffs. 

Usually, the rounded opening of the cave was accessible on the beach. However, the tide was too high, and crashing waves blocked the route. Lancelot pointed to the rocks near the cave’s mouth and said, “That way.” They climbed over them, and the water on the other side reached up to Merlin’s calves. The water soaked through his boots and jeans, and the summer months no longer did anything to warm the sea. It bit at Merlin’s skin, and he hoped his body would acclimatize to it instead of becoming numb with hypothermia. 

They halted by the entrance, and Merlin whistled inside. He listened until the echo of it faded. For a heart-pounding moment, he thought there wasn’t going to be an answer, but then another long whistle called for him and he breathed.

They waded into the cave, trying to keep balance as the waves pushed and pulled at their ankles. The rank smells of fish and salt arrested Merlin’s senses. Soon, a beam of torchlight flittered across the damp walls and settled on Merlin’s face, blinding him.

“Do you mind?” he complained, looking away and holding up his hand like a shield. The light shot down to the water at his knees, and it made the cave walls glow faintly with swimming ripples of green light.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, relieved. Merlin blinked the spots out of his eyes to look at him. Percival and Elyan were standing along the cave wall, and Merlin was glad to see that Elyan was much more alert now. Gwaine and Leon, however, had passed out. They’d been laid down on large rocks jutting up from the sandy floor, but the water was continuously rising. It crashed into the boulders and soaked their clothes through. Their lips had gone blue from the water’s chill.

“Arthur!” Lancelot called, his voice bouncing back. He rushed past Merlin, the water sloshing nosily about him, as he made his way to Arthur. “It is good to see you!”

Lancelot’s words sounded true, but Merlin watched the exchange carefully. Arthur seemed less enthused by the reunion, but he did his best to hide it. “Lancelot,” he said, sounding tense only to Merlin’s ears. “I’m glad you could join us.” As they clasped each other’s arms, the torch in Arthur’s other hand danced limply across the currents. 

As Lancelot moved to greet his conscious fellow knights, Merlin fell into place next to Arthur.

“We can’t stay here for long,” Arthur told him, eyeing the water. His voice fluctuated as he shivered. “What is this place, Merlin?”

Merlin chuckled to himself through chattering teeth that caused an ache in his jaw. “You’re gonna laugh,” he said. Arthur raised a brow. “It’s called Merlin’s Cave. Apparently, I was supposed to have lived here or something.”

Arthur’s expression grew even more incredulous. “So, now you’re a cave-dweller, too?”

Merlin shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

“By you.”

“I _don’t_ doubt it.”

Merlin pulled out the walkie from his bag and clicked on the talk-button, praying he’d be in range while in the cave. Thankfully, the other end crackled.

“Wallace, can you hear me?”

There was a pause, and then Wallace’s voice sparked into life. “I read you. Over.” 

Arthur dropped some of the tension in his shoulders.

“We’re in the sea cave beneath the ruins,” Merlin said into the mouthpiece. 

Momentarily, Wallace responded with a lightness in his tone, “The cave, huh? You havin’ fun, Merlin? Over.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and Arthur quickly swooped in to push down on the talk-button. “That’s what I asked him.”

“Yes, yes, I’m having the time of my life,” Merlin deadpanned. He tried bouncing up and down to warm himself up. “Bring the car as close to the edge of the cliff as you can, but stay away from the hotel. We’ll meet you on the other side of the ruins." 

“Got it. I’ll be there in fifteen. Over,” Wallace promised.

“Hurry. The tide’s coming in.” The water was up to Merlin’s thighs now. He supposed he could keep it down with magic, but he didn’t want to risk it. It might give away their location to Morgause if she spotted the change. Even if she didn’t, forestalling a natural force took a lot of magic. She would be able to sense his power if he used it on that scale. 

As Merlin put the walkie away, Arthur and Percival began preparing Leon and Gwaine to move. Lancelot appeared at Merlin’s side, his brows knitted together in curiosity. 

“What was that thing?” he asked, nodding towards the bag. Merlin reasoned he must have been talking about the radio. He leaned in and dropped his voice discreetly. “Was it magic?” 

Merlin blinked. Shade Lancelot had not known about Merlin’s magic. Perhaps it really was him, or perhaps Mordred had filled the phantom’s head with new knowledge. 

“Later,” Merlin promised with caution. If it really was Lancelot, Merlin would have to explain a lot more than what a walkie-talkie was to him.

He really hadn’t planned on giving that speech four times.

He nodded towards the unconscious men on the rocks. “Let’s help the others.”

It wasn’t easy getting Gwaine and Leon up the cliff-face. It took longer than it should have, and Merlin feared they’d leave Wallace sitting in one place for too long. However, they reached the top just as the car pulled up on the grass. 

The tire marks it left on the earth were of no consequence. Mordred would know who freed his prisoners. There was no one else who would do such a thing. Only Arthur.

 

///

 

Blood was staining Mordred’s hands. He hadn’t meant for things to get so messy, but the woman had surprised him. She’d put up a fight, but ultimately wasn’t a match for Mordred’s sword.

He wiped the crimson off his skin with a flannel he’d retrieved in the kitchen, and slowly paced back into the flat’s sitting room, where two bodies lay on the carpet. The man hadn’t a scratch on him. He looked as though he were asleep. On the other hand, the woman’s face was a mask of shock, wide eyes and mouth agape to the ceiling. Her stained and reddened hand rested on her torso, where her own blood had stopped oozing and pooling around her. 

Mordred did not pause before them. He stepped over the bodies, and crossed the room to the sofa. A woman was stretched out on top of it. The red velvet of her dress was the same colour as the victim’s blood. It seemed to seep into all the cracks and crevices of the sofa. Her eyes were closed in bliss, and her black hair fanned out around her. The rose colour of her cheeks warmed her ivory skin as the pink warmth returned to her flesh. 

Mordred genuflected in front of the sofa and took her limp hand in his. It was warm and alive, and suddenly he felt the very same way. His eyes searched her sleeping face. A soft sensation bloomed in his chest, one he hadn’t felt since he was a small boy. 

Finally, he wasn’t alone anymore. Finally, he had a reason to live, a person to care for him, someone he wanted to make proud.

“Welcome back, Morgana,” he whispered gently, as though not wanting to wake her. “It’s time to finish what we started.”

 

///

 

Blackness shrouded her like an ancient enemy. It had consumed her, suffocated her, reached for her with its frigid claws. It wasn’t the pain that had frightened her. In fact, dying was oddly painless. After the initial pinch of tearing flesh, she had gone numb to the wound. It had been a strangely comforting way to die—to be held so closely, supported by an intimate but loveless embrace as the shadows came for her. 

She remembered falling into the arms around her, but not falling to the dirt.

But there she was—lying on her back, on something soft and cool, with the blackness still around her. 

Morgana blinked awake. She continued blinking until her eyes adjusted, and suddenly the shadows weren’t so deep. It was only night, and would end with morning’s sunrise.

She gasped, the onslaught of memory rushing back to her as she sat up. She was on a bed in a very unfamiliar room. There was a vanity table along the wall, and the three mirrors on top of it reflected her own image back to her. She looked pale and stricken, but very much alive.

She looked down at her stomach, not taking the time to wonder after the thin silk slip she wore or who had put her in it. She felt her stomach for the wound that was not there. She kept searching; she was unconvinced she had healed. But it was gone, like it had never been. There wasn’t even a lingering soreness.

Her heavy breaths of panic turned into laughter, and a desperately victorious smile cracked her cheeks.

She had survived! Not even a blade forged with magic could kill her! Emrys had failed!

_Emrys_ , she thought breathlessly. Surely, he had failed in more ways than one. Arthur had been on the verge of death when she’d last seen him. There was no hope of getting him to Avalon in time to save him. He would be gone—finally! With Arthur gone and Emrys distracted by his grief, Camelot would be vulnerable.

Plucking the city from Gwen’s feeble hands would be child’s play. Her army would march on the city immediately and make every knight suffer for the irreplaceable loss his precious king made her endure. Every citizen would bow to her.

She would see her goals achieved, for her own pleasure and for Mordred’s memory. His sacrifice would not be in vain. Hundreds of years from now, mothers would tell their children tales of how the noble knight killed Camelot’s tyrant.

She gave the room another sweeping glance. One of the Saxons must have found her and brought her there, though she didn’t know where she was. Hopefully, her army was close. There was no time to lose. 

Before she could move to get out of bed, the door opened. A swell of light followed, causing Morgana to wince away. A man entered, but it hurt her eyes to look at first. She blinked it away, and the image that came into view made her pulse leap. 

“Morgana!” Mordred called breathlessly. 

Immediately, tears welled in Morgana’s eyes. The man before her was impossible, but she prayed with all her heart that he, too, had somehow survived, even if she had held his cold body in her arms. She let herself believe it for only a moment as she called, “Mordred!”

He rushed to her side and fell onto the edge of the bed. They threw their arms around each other, never meaning to let go. He felt so solid and real, and his breath tripped out of him in soft sobs.

She remembered burying him. She had pulled the soil from the earth and laid his body to rest wrapped in cloth. She marked his grave with every stone she could find. She could not allow him to become a faceless fallen soldier, just one of the masses. He was so much more than that. Losing him, knowing he would not be a part of the world she would build after Arthur’s death, had broken her heart beyond repair.

She had buried him. He could not be alive.

At first, she thought maybe she had died, too, and had joined him in the afterlife. But somehow she knew that wasn’t the case. “This is a dream,” she said surely, her tone thick with tears. 

She reluctantly pulled away from him and searched his face. He was smiling softly, looking at her as though he hardly believed she was real. “It isn’t a dream. This is real,” he assured her.

She didn’t know why she believed him, but she did. She cupped his cheeks in her hands, allowing the joy in her heart to flow freely through her. She remembered the first time she had held him, when he was just a small child. She still saw some traces of that boy within him now. “I thought I’d never see you again.” 

“I would never abandon you,” he promised. “For years, I have looked for a way to bring you back.”

_Years_?

Morgana let her hands fall away from him. She shook her head, trying to decipher his meaning. Again, she felt cold. “Back? Back where?” 

“Back into the living world,” said a voice from the doorway. Surprised, Morgana tore her eyes away from Mordred to the woman walking into view. Her blonde hair glinted in the light from the hall.

If Mordred hadn’t been before her, Morgana would not have believed her eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, and an intense wave of relief washed over her. Suddenly, she knew everything would be fine. 

“Hello, sister,” Morgause greeted, a smile quirking her lips.

Morgana sobbed out her name. She tore from the bed and ran into Morgause’s welcoming arms. The smell of her hair and her long lingering hugs were exactly how Morgana remembered.

All her senses were overwhelmed. She didn’t know what was happening; she could not even begin to process it. She slipped out of Morgause’s embrace, and Morgause folded both her hands around one of Morgana’s, holding it up between them and gripping it tightly in reassurance.

“I don’t understand,” Morgana pleaded, hearing the quivering of her own voice. She knew she didn’t have to be ashamed of her emotion, not in front of her sister and Mordred.

“No tears, sister. All will become clear in time,” Morgause assured her. “Mordred has worked hard to ensure you have all you need to gain what is rightfully yours. There is a world outside ripe for the taking. It belongs to you.” 

Morgana swallowed hard, letting the blissful words warm her. Hope filled her heart. “Camelot?”

Morgause shook her head, still smiling. “Not just Camelot. _All_ of the Five Kingdoms.”

Morgana still didn’t understand. The enormity of what she was hearing pressed in on her. It did not feel heavy at all. In fact, she felt as though she were floating. 

“Come. You have much to see,” Morgause said, leading her by the hand out of the room. Morgana peered over her shoulder to make sure Mordred was following. He trailed after both women as Morgana was led through the strange house she had found herself in. At the door, Mordred took a long black coat from a hook and helped Morgana into it. 

When she was covered, Morgause opened the door and led her off the porch, into the world. Past the small garden, a black road led up and down, cutting through the green. More houses lined it, all of them similar to the one Morgana had just stepped out of. Families, chatting and laughing, bustled down the street under bright lampposts. Something metal whooshed down the road. It looked like a carriage, but none like Morgana had ever seen before. It was much too fast, and no animal was reined to it.

She hadn’t realised that she was walking towards it all. Her feet moved by their own accord. Everything caught her eyes at once. She didn’t know where to look, what to say, how to understand. 

Mordred and Morgause followed after her. She turned to look at them, silently begging for an explanation. She got none. Morgause simply took her hand again and beckoned in a comforting way, “Come.” 

She continued to speak as she led Morgana down the pavements, but Morgana only caught every couple of words. She was too stunned and wide-eyed to pay much attention, but Morgause was saying something about meeting people who had been waiting for her to wake up. She also said something about a location they were in before, one they had to abandon because it was no longer safe to stay there. 

Morgana was led to a house on an adjoining street, where more people in strange clothing toiled and more of those metal carriages lined the block. Once inside the house, they walked down a small entrance hall, until the room opened up into a parlour. 

It was filled with nearly three-dozen people, men and woman alike. Some of them had hilted swords swinging from their hips. All murmured conversation died away when Morgana and her companions walked in. All eyes fell on her. 

At the front of the group, Cenred turned away from the man he was speaking with to face her. Seeing him was another unexpected shock, but not nearly as heart wrenching as any of the previous ones Morgana had just experiences. But, perhaps, what he did next was the most confusing of all.

He dropped to one knee before her and revered, “My queen.” 

The handsome man Cenred had been conversing with immediately did the same. Morgana’s eyes lingered on him for longer than she’d intended. He was tall and willowy but muscular, with ivory skin contrasting dark hair. His head was slightly bowed in reverence, but his light eyes looked up at her in awe.

The rest of the men and women in the room dropped to their knees and proclaimed Morgana as their queen.

“These are just a few of those who have pledged to follow you,” Morgause said from behind Morgana. “Their current leader is weak. He hasn’t nearly as much power as you. Soon, you will have an army of magic users at your disposal. Together, we will take what is ours. We will build a world free from those who seek to destroy us. _You_ will show us the way.”

Morgana was speechless. She stepped into the kneeling crowd, scanning the room. Her magic spun through her, coursing through her veins in triumph.

“Are you pleased, my queen?” Mordred said hopefully.

Morgana looked him over her shoulder. Confusion still riddled her mind, but she pushed it away. It hardly mattered now. All that mattered was what lay ahead. She turned back to her adoring soldiers. A razor sharp smirk cut her expression. 

“I am pleased.”


	5. Chapter 5

Three days passed, most of them in a haze of sleep intermittently disrupted by a foul tasting draft Gaius cooked up or some white capsules Merlin told Lancelot to swallow with a sip of water. Sometimes the medication got lodged in Lancelot’s throat, but the taste of the cool water was welcome.

All his recent memories blended together.

After the strain of climbing back up the cliff, Lancelot had been ragged with exhaustion and pain. He vaguely remembered clamouring into something large and metal and sitting down. He remembered motion, but then he must have passed out. It was daylight when he woke up alone in an unfamiliar room full of strange and foreign objects. He hadn’t much time to look at them properly before Merlin came in.

Merlin gave Lancelot plain bread and chicken broth, telling him to eat but not wanting to quickly reintroduce food back into his system after he’d been starved. Merlin redressed the bandages on Lancelot’s shoulder wounds that he hadn’t remembered getting, and asked him a few questions (what his mother’s name had been, why he’d wanted to become a knight, what his favourite colour was). 

He then went to the dresser and opened the top drawer, telling Lancelot to dress. He also pulled out a shiny rectangle made of flimsy but unbreakable material and called it Lancelot’s identification card.

Lancelot blinked at it when Merlin handed it over. According to the card, his name was Lance Galahad du Lac, born on the tenth of December 1981. There was also what Merlin called a _home address_ that said he was from somewhere called London. Beneath the address, a string of numbers read _ID: 26395102_. His signature was at the bottom of the card, though Lancelot didn’t remember signing anything. 

He gaped, not knowing what to do with the card. He pushed it to the back of his mind and asked, “Where are the others?”

“Upstairs. They’re all awake now,” said Merlin. “I’ll be right outside the door. Get dressed.”

Lancelot looked into the drawer and tentatively pulled out some odd coloured, strange clothes—trousers with tough, stiff fabric and tunics that were much too fitting. There were a few shirts, however, that were soft and more durable than the rest. They looked like Gwen’s handiwork. Lancelot picked one of them and slipped into it, careful not to reopen the wound in his shoulder. 

He opened the door to Merlin, who then shepherded him through the building, up a flight of stairs, and into another flat.

All the while, Lancelot couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with the lack of food. It was Merlin. He was acting strangely, though Lancelot couldn’t place why. The only physical difference was the black scruff on Merlin’s face, but there was also something about the look in his eyes. It was too old for his body, more so than usual. It was ancient.

Now, Merlin was on his knees. He was drawing something on the floor, a circle that spiralled in on itself towards the centre.

Lancelot watched the process with curiosity. Merlin had told him it was a simple test to ensure he was truly himself. Lancelot did not object, but he wondered if anyone else had been asked to pass such a test. 

_Is it really you?_ Merlin had asked him. Lancelot still did not understand his meaning. He certainly felt like himself. He didn’t know who else he could be.

Gaius was standing over Merlin, inspecting the sigil as if to make sure Merlin had done it correctly. He seemed satisfied, but Merlin never once looked up at him in question or for approval.

Lancelot looked away from them, to Arthur. He was pacing in front of the entrance door of the flat. His face was stony and pensive. Every so often, his gaze would flicker to Lancelot, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. Lancelot never returned his look, but he wondered why Arthur was regarding him in such a way. It made him feel as though he’d done something wrong, but did not know what.

Gwen was the only other person in the room. Lancelot tried hard not to look at her, but he could not help himself from stealing glances. She seemed worried. He could see it in her large eyes and the set of her jaw, but she did not fidget, suck on her lower lip, or bite her nails. She used to do that, he remembered so fondly. There were many of her quirks he’d memorized, but only from afar.

They had been the last things he’d thought of before stepping into the void, before darkness swallowed him whole. In that moment, he thought he’d never seen her again. He wished he could look at her fully, to take in all that she was—her loveliness and fierceness, the softness of her skin and kindness in her eyes. But he feared she’d catch him looking, so he starved himself of her as he had learned to do during his years in Camelot. 

But still, he wished he could look at her, only to see for himself if she was happy. He’d prayed for that for her upon his sacrifice.

He’d made her a promise to protect Arthur before his death. He’d given his life as to not let her down. He wondered, now, why that brought only suspicion upon him. 

Merlin hovered his hands over the sigil, and the chalky colour of the spiral glowed the same gold as his irises before fading once more.

Lancelot’s heart jumped into his throat. His eyes flickered from Arthur to Gwen, but they did not seem surprised by Merlin’s magic. It did not settle him any as he wondered just how much he’d missed. 

A lot, he assumed.

He had far too many questions: How he was alive? Why weren’t they in Camelot? In fact, where were they in the first place? He’d never seen a place like it before.

“Okay,” Merlin said, jumping to his feet. He gestured to the sigil he’d drawn. “I just need you to walk though that, Lancelot.”

Lancelot was wary. It seemed as though they’d gone through quite a lot of trouble for something so simple. Would the magic in the sigil hurt him? No. Merlin would never play such a trick on him.

“That’s all?” he asked, just to make sure he performed the task correctly. 

“That’s all,” Merlin assured. 

Lancelot braced himself, ignoring the knot forming in his intestines. He stepped into the circle and crossed to its other side. He took only two long strides, and it was over. He turned back to face the group, and saw the nod Merlin gave to Arthur.

“It’s him,” Merlin said in a breathless grin, suddenly triumphant. It seemed as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Yes, now do you mind telling me what that was all about?” Lancelot asked, figuring it was safe to rejoin the others. Arthur had stopped pacing, but he was still glaring at Lancelot with white-hot intensity.

And Gwen. He could feel her eyes on him at all times. He feared, if he looked at her, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He pointedly drew his attention to Merlin and Gaius.

“We had to ensure you were not a Shade,” Gaius explained, which only served to further Lancelot’s perplexity. Seeing this, Gaius continued, “A phantom returned to this world by a necromancer.”

Lancelot did not know how to react. He breathed out a laugh, as though Gaius’ words might have been a joke. Although, he understood their concern. He had, after all, been dead.

Merlin was giving him a peculiar look. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Lancelot’s face fell, but he controlled the bleakness that had suddenly washed over him. “Dying,” he answered frankly, and the weight of Gwen’s stare doubled. It made him clear his throat. Perhaps he had been too vague. “You, Merlin. I looked back at you before—.” And then there was coldness, and nothingness. 

And then he remembered something else.

“No,” he said, thinking hard. It was blurry. He could hardly make out the memory, if it was that at all. It felt more like an elusive dream after waking up. “There was lake. I was lying in a boat, I think. And you, Merlin . . .” 

It dawned on him.

“Was I one of these creatures? A Shade?”

The silence and grim looks were all he needed in ways of an answer. He suddenly felt very cold, and full of regret, though he knew not what for. Perhaps Arthur’s scrutiny of him was justified. Lancelot wondered what horrible things he’d done in that state. He wondered how he had dishonoured himself, dishonoured Arthur. 

Something else dawned on him. His eyes fell heavily on Gwen. Her breath audibly caught as their gazes locked. 

“So, you’re saying, everything that happened,” Arthur said carefully, pointing a lofty finger at Lancelot, “was because of magic? It hadn’t been Lancelot at all?”

“Yes,” Merlin said. “And, I never had proof of it, but I think Gwen was placed under some enchantment, too. Morgana had orchestrated the whole thing.”

Arthur and Gwen shared a look. They seemed to be silently reassessing something between the two of them. Perhaps they were reassessing their entire life together.

Again, a wave of shame washed over Lancelot at the damage he’d caused.

“And you never thought to tell me any of this?” Arthur asked Merlin shortly, turning his glare to him. Merlin met it as though it did not faze him at all. 

“Would you have believed it?” 

“I was desperate enough to have believed anything!” 

Merlin expression remained neutral, eerily so. Lancelot had never seen such emptiness about him before. 

“Arthur, he did not have proof,” Gwen reasoned. Her voice jolted Lancelot back into himself. She had not said a word since he’d seen her again. Her voice was just as he had remembered it. The sound of it settled beneath his breastbone. 

“But you would know,” Arthur reached, sounding almost manic. “Wouldn’t you? You’d know if you’d been enchanted, Guinevere.” 

Gwen opened her mouth as though to speak, but said nothing. Her eyes were uncertain as they flashed to Merlin and Gaius, and then to Lancelot.

He had a fleeting moment of euphoric hope that her uncertainty was not about being enchanted, but about the nature of the enchantment. Perhaps she still felt something for him, if only a small something. Perhaps the enchantment needed that to work. 

He squashed his own hopes. He could not come between Arthur and Gwen again. 

“Arthur, Gwen would never knowingly do anything to hurt you,” he defended. “She loves you too greatly. Please, do not blame her. The fault lies with me.”

“Do not think that. You were not yourself,” Gwen told him quickly. If her voice had been a jolt before, her speaking directly to Lancelot was a complete shock to his system. 

Arthur visibly settled. He took in a breath of consideration, and nodded. “It would seem Morgana is the only one to blame.”

It relieved Lancelot to have their forgiveness, but he was not certain he could so soon forgive himself. There must have been a way he could make it up to them.

“You must consider the outcome to the enchantment, as well, sire,” Gaius spoke up, addressing Arthur. “It strengthened your relationship with Gwen. Morgana’s plan had not worked. If it had, you would have never married.” 

_Married_. The word rang in Lancelot’s ear, echoing like a drop in the abyss, a shout into a void. He did not know why, but he looked to Merlin to confirm it was true. Merlin, however, had gone very still, his eyes on the floor. 

Lancelot remembered that he was not the only one who’d watched Arthur and Gwen’s relationship with restraint and longing. But Merlin had always been so much better at locking his pain away than he.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. He was somewhat hesitant, Lancelot noticed, but no one else seemed to. Arthur was looking at Gwen, who smiled gently back at him. Lancelot knew he was forgotten, and would once more bow out gracefully so long as Gwen kept smiling.

“Alright,” Arthur said, seeming satisfied to end the conversation. He paced to the other end of the coffee table to stand closer to Gwen. “Merlin, send everyone else in.”

Merlin crossed the room, giving Lancelot a quick apologetic look when he passed, to open the door and give a beckoning motion. He stepped aside, allowing Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, and Leon to file in, before shutting the door behind them.

Lancelot got a warm feeling in his chest upon seeing them. He had always felt like such outsider to them. Together, they built close bonds of camaraderie, brotherhood, and friendship. He never felt as though he fit into that, and was always on the peripheral of their mischief and amity. Upon seeing them once more, all that seemed so silly and long ago now. They welcomed him with teasing smiles and slaps to the back. He wondered how he ever convinced himself that he did not belong in their company. 

“Have a seat,” Arthur told them, gesturing to the armchair and threadbare couch. “I imagine you’re all still recovering your strength.”

They did as Arthur asked, but Lancelot decided to remain standing. He did not yet feel comfortable in such a strange place. He wished to know where they were, and how they got there. He looked to Merlin, who oddly kept his distance from the group. He stayed close enough for it not to be obvious, but it was to Lancelot.

He remembered how Merlin liked to be in the middle of everything. Merlin had never been like the other servants, for more reasons than one. And, when in this particular company, it was almost expected of him to be part of the group’s decision-making. Now, however, he shied away. His eyes wistfully flickered across the entire group before him as though he’d never seen the sight before, and never would again. 

“You must have questions,” Arthur stated, drawing Lancelot’s attention.

“I’d say that’s an understatement,” Gwaine put bluntly. “Let’s start with, what the hell’s going on?”

Leon said, his tone much more polite, “Yes, Arthur, none of us can understand how we came to be in this place. The last I remember, I was ill and bedridden—,” his face turned tart as he added, “and aged seventy-four years." 

Percival snorted in assent. “Last I remember, I was raiding a Saxon camp along Camelot’s borders.” 

“So, is that it? Are we all dead?” Elyan asked. “Is this some sort of afterlife?”

“Not like any afterlife I’ve heard of,” Gwaine grumbled.

Elyan narrowed his eyes at him. “How would anyone _know_ what sorts of afterlives there are?”

Gwaine opened his mouth to say something smart, no doubt, but Arthur ordered, “Enough. None of us are dead.”

“Not anymore,” Merlin amended for him, making everyone swivel around to look at him. “You _were_ dead, all of you. Condolences.”

Lancelot bore his eyes into Merlin, trying to get a read on his meaning. He continued to assess him long after Arthur retook control. “Yes, thank you, Merlin.” 

Elyan asked, “How is that possible?”

Gaius answered, “We were rather hoping you all might shed some light on that. How long had you been imprisoned?”

All of the knights looked at each other in a silent attempt to reach a conclusion. Lancelot clocked all of their faces in turn, but it seemed they were at as much of a loss as he was. 

“It’s hard to say, Gaius. It may have been weeks,” Leon finally spoke up for them. 

“Who was the first of you?”

The four of them looked to Lancelot, causing everyone else’s eyes to fall on him. He suddenly felt very pressured to remember something that may help. He came up with nothing. His captors had told him nothing. He hardly saw them, except for the once a day he was fed bread and water. Other than that, it was just him, his chains, the strange machines in the room with him, and the darkness.

In the beginning, he’d tried to escape, but his chains were too strong. Against his skin, they felt like more than just cold iron. It did not take him long to realise they were laced with magic.

“Lancelot?” Arthur prompted, but there was still nothing to say. Lancelot fished for any morsel of information that may have been important.

“I do not know how long I’d been there,” he said apologetically. “It must have been more than a month.” Or perhaps his mind had tricked him into believing that. He never saw daylight, and he never knew when it was night. It had been disorienting. “The only people I saw were King Cenred and Morgause, and there was another man, too. He was young." 

“Mordred,” Gwaine supplied, his voice dark. By his expression, it seemed there was some past between he and Mordred. In fact, the same heaviness was etched into all their faces.

“You know him?” Lancelot asked, thrown. 

A few people answered at once, all of them with different explanations full of varying emotions.

“He was a knight,” said Arthur.

“He was a Druid,” said Gaius.

“He was a traitor,” said Leon.

“He was our friend,” said Gwaine. 

“He killed Arthur,” said Merlin.

Lancelot didn’t know which explanation to react to. Apparently, this man had been a lot of things. But he settled on the identity that struck a chord in him. “He _killed_ Arthur?”

“Not before I killed him, too,” Arthur said, almost boastfully, but there was a twinge of sadness in his voice. He shook his head to get back on topic. “What else, Lancelot? Did he say anything to you?” 

“No,” was the immediate answer. Mordred never said a word to him. He only pierced Lancelot with his eyes like ice. “I knew nothing. I thought I was alone, until one day he took me to see them.” He nodded to his brothers in arms.

It hadn’t been long ago since that occurrence—maybe a week or so. He recalled when Mordred unlatched Lancelot’s chains and dragged him through the basement to where the others were. Upon seeing them, some of his strength returned. He tried to struggle against Mordred, hoping to somehow incapacitate him so they might all escape together. 

When he had been alone, he hadn’t much to fight for. He thought perhaps he’d been dead, and such torture was his penance for all he’d done in his life. When he saw his friends, he knew he was still alive. 

Alone, he could do nothing; but, together, they had a chance of making it out alive. 

When they recognised him, some had said his name in shock. Then, they had each tried to break free of their bonds without success.

However, Mordred shortly brought Lancelot back to his prison. Lancelot had no idea what purpose the exercise served. He still didn’t know why he had been set apart from them.

“Anyone else?” Arthur asked, sounding nearly frustrated now. “Did Mordred mention any plan? Anything?”

They all shook their heads. “No, he’d just come in every day and say the same thing,” said Gwaine. “He’d ask us to fight for him. He never said what for; only that we’re his friends and we should be on the same side.” 

Gwen raised a brow. “Am I right in thinking none of you took this offer?”

“After all he did? Of course, not!” Leon answered with fervour and hatred cutting his tone.

“He never asked me to fight,” Lancelot said, which piqued everyone’s interest.

“He didn’t?” Arthur considered, “Maybe because he doesn’t know you.” 

The logic was sound, though it made Lancelot wonder what his purpose to Mordred was exactly. His stomach twisted when Merlin said, his tone even, “Or he was leverage for when Mordred got fed up with hearing _no_ from everyone else. His plan might have been to kill Lancelot if they didn’t comply. That’s why he let the others know he had Lancelot captive.”

Lancelot was relieved it hadn’t come to that. “I would not let them be forced to fight against their will at my expense,” he told Merlin plainly. “I would have rather died.” 

“Yeah, and they’d die before seeing you killed,” Merlin deadpanned, though he looked vaguely proud. “You’re all too damn noble. That’s your problem.” 

He may have had a point. No one objected.

“But why Lancelot? It makes little sense,” Gwen reasoned. “Mordred could have used anyone. I do no believe he brought any of you back just to kill you.”

“And he must have known none of you would betray Arthur,” Gaius agreed.

“So you’re saying Mordred is the reason we’re all here?” asked Gwaine, voicing the others’ confusion. 

“Where is _here_ exactly?” Elyan added. 

Arthur sighed like he knew it was now his turn to do some explaining. “There’s much you need to know. Most of it won’t be easy,” he said. “Lancelot, you’d better sit down.”

Lancelot preferred to stand. He was even more uncomfortable than he had been before, judging by the way his skin now crawled. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened. 

The tale that followed had been a joint effort between Arthur, Gwen, and Gaius. In turn, they explained all that happened in the last few days. During it, Lancelot had tried to convince himself he was dreaming, or that he really was dead. Somehow, that would be easier than their explanation.

The future. The year 2016 was outside their door, and the passage of time had not been kind to the world. Lancelot had never even imagined such a year would exist, or that the world could ever been anything else than what it had been during his life. But here he was, standing right in the middle of the future. 

He didn’t know how to process the implications. It was overwhelming in a way that struck fear into him. And it was exciting. So much so that he wanted to run outside and see everything for himself, to look at the world anew, to see how it had changed, to fix what had been broken. 

“As we said, we don’t know why Mordred is bringing people back, or how he’s doing it,” Arthur finished when everyone was on the same page. “Our first order of business should be to find those things out.”

Everyone nodded, still dazed, but in solidarity. 

“Who was the first to return?” Percival asked.

“Arthur,” said Merlin. He’d been quiet before, but Lancelot never once forgot his presence. Somehow, Merlin’s silence was louder than words. He seemed to be observing everyone, reserved and calculating. “He’s been back for almost three years now, but not by Mordred’s hand. He came back, just like the prophecies said he would.” 

The faintest of smiles lit Merlin’s face as he gazed across the room at Arthur, as though he could not believe Arthur was really standing there. Everyone else seemed to fall away for him. Lancelot had seen that look on him many times, but never like this. Never so openly. Never while Arthur could see it. 

And then Merlin seemed to come back to himself. He snapped back into attention and continued, “I got him from Avalon and brought him here.”

Lancelot cocked his head to the side in thought. “So, Arthur was not the first to return,” he said, halfway to a question. “You were.”

Again, each of the knights angled themselves to face Merlin. Meanwhile, Merlin and Arthur shared a look between them that Lancelot could not read. It was almost like they were deciding on what answer to give. Whatever the options were, both Gaius and Gwen seemed privy to them.

“No,” Merlin answered while still looking to Arthur. His eyes, suddenly hard as stone, settled back on Lancelot. “I never left.”

The answer made little sense. In fact, Lancelot again could not contrive his meaning. All the cogs in his mind halted upon hearing the words. His gut, however, lurched. Apparently, his companions were a lot quicker on the uptake.

“You’ve been alive all this time?” Percival gaped, losing some of his usual reserve.

“How can that be?” asked Elyan.

“What’s he talking about?” Gwaine wondered at the same time, directing the question at no one and everyone.

Merlin’s gaze fell to the floor.

“I don’t understand. If Mordred did not bring you back, how is it you appear young?” Leon tried to reason. “You aged just as Gwen and I had in Camelot.”

“Oh! No!” Merlin feigned a slight chuckle. “That was just a glamour spell so I didn’t freak anyone out.”

“Did he say _spell_?” Elyan asked, but Merlin carried on rambling as though he hadn’t said anything.

“Gwen and I decided we couldn’t have people asking why the court physician never aged. It seemed easier to appear old than to stir up suspicion. Because, you know, plastic surgery wasn’t even around back then and—.” 

“ _Mer_ lin!” 

Merlin bit down on his lips to shut himself up. “Sorry.”

By then, Lancelot could not deny the horrible thought that sloshed inside of him. The air eluded him as he stared at Merlin with this new knowledge. Merlin’s new disposition—the haunted look in his eyes, even the way he carried himself so differently than he had in Camelot—suddenly made sense now.

He imagined Merlin alive and alone, while everyone he’d ever loved had been dead for fifteen hundred years. The thought of how his friend had suffered broke Lancelot’s heart, but it must have been nothing compared to all the pain Merlin had endured. 

“Leon, Percival, as you probably already know,” Arthur explained, gesturing to Merlin with an upturned palm, “Merlin has magic.”

“Magic?” Elyan echoed in astonishment as Gwaine gasped victoriously, “I knew it!” 

Lancelot took a step closer to Merlin, sizing him up. “It’s kept you here all this time?” 

Merlin’s mask of nonchalance slipped in the close proximity. He searched Lancelot’s face, and nodded sternly. “I didn’t age. The day Arthur died, I just . . . stopped.” Bitterness tugged at the corner of his lips. “In more ways than one,” he added in a musing whisper.

Lancelot wanted to say something—anything—to comfort Merlin. However, before he got the chance, Arthur said, “Lancelot, I can’t help but notice how unsurprised you are about Merlin’s magic.”

Merlin’s mask was back. Lancelot, however, froze. It seemed silly to lie now, so he resolved to tell the truth, even though it wouldn’t make Arthur happy. Arthur, who was still glaring at him with suspicion. Lying would only make that worse. 

“I knew.” 

Arthur pushed his head forward in disbelief. “You _knew_?” His glare fixed on Merlin. “You _told_ him?”

Arthur’s frustration was growing. Lancelot wanted to stave it off before it was unleashed on Merlin. He quickly said, “He didn’t tell me! I worked it out.”

It didn’t seem to diffuse the situation any. Everyone’s eyes were averted to anything but Merlin, Arthur, and Lancelot.

“You worked it out,” Arthur repeated through his teeth, looking at Merlin the entire time. “Well, it’s a good thing one of us _worked it out_. Merlin—a word. Privately.” Without waiting for a response, Arthur stalked towards his bedroom. 

Merlin cast a glance to Lancelot before following. He appeared sardonically humoured. That, at least, was a trait Lancelot found familiar in him.

When they had both disappeared from the room, the rest of the group let out a collective breath to ease the tension. They made faces at each other, all of them far too familiar with the situation and what was to follow: Arthur’s anger and empty threats of punishment, Merlin’s insolent retorts, Arthur’s sour mood for the rest of the day, Merlin’s cold shoulder. No real damage would be done, but it was always more trouble than it was worth for everyone present. 

Although, this time, Merlin was in trouble because of Lancelot. 

Lancelot regretted speaking up. Merlin did not deserve to bear the weight of the resentment Arthur felt for Lancelot. That should have been between them.

He met Gwen’s eyes. She, too, seemed to be thinking the same thing. He silently promised her he’d make it right.

 

///

 

Arthur was furious. Out of all the people who could have known Merlin’s secret, it was Lancelot! It could have been anyone else! Hell, it _should_ have been Gwaine, if anyone! 

Arthur knew his anger was unfounded. After all, they’d just established that Lancelot was not to blame for the events of the past. He was just as much a victim of Morgana’s ploy, if not more so. Rationally, Arthur knew this, but he did not feel it in his heart of hearts.

Just because Lancelot hadn’t attempted an affair with Gwen didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Arthur saw it now in the way Lancelot looked at her, or rather the way he very pointedly did not look at her.

He loved her. And she loved him. She always had. Arthur knew that, and all his life it was a source of insecurity for him. He constantly compared himself to a dead man, living in Lancelot’s shadow and never able to escape it. He often wondered if, had Lancelot had survived somehow, Gwen would have married him instead. 

Would she have been happier?

And then a wave of guilt overcame him. Certainly, Lancelot wouldn’t have married someone else when he thought Gwen dead—like Arthur had.

“How long did he know?” Arthur demanded, not able to shake the anger from his tone, once Merlin stood in front of him. Arthur’s back was to the wall, and they were just inside the open door of their bedroom. Merlin hadn’t closed it on his way in, and Arthur wasn’t about to give Merlin the satisfaction of doing it himself.

Merlin sighed and crossed his arms. “Arthur . . .”

“How long, Merlin!”

Merlin dropped his shoulders and gave Arthur a thoughtful look, like he was trying to decide how to phrase his answer. Finally, he said, “Almost since the day I met him.” 

Arthur couldn’t stand the constriction in his chest. He looked away and shook his head. “The whole time,” he said bitterly. “Did he really work it out, or did you tell him?”

“Oh, Arthur—! _Worked it out_ , is giving him a lot of credit. He _saw_ me use magic.”

It didn’t make Arthur feel any better. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached, and said, “And you couldn’t have made him forget? You’re supposed to be all-powerful. My god, Merlin, if you really wanted to guard your secret, why did you allow him to remember?”

“I was still growing into my magic then. Maybe I could have made him forget if I tried hard enough, but . . .”

Arthur understood what he did not say. “You didn’t want to.” Saying it aloud drained the anger from Arthur. It only left him sad. Merlin had no one to share his troubles with besides Gaius, so he decided to share them with Lancelot. “You trusted him. More than you trusted me.”

“Because he kept my secret,” Merlin urged, looking pained. “I wouldn’t have told him if he hadn’t found out on his own.”

“You could have told _me_.”

Merlin snorted in humour. “Not this again. You know why I couldn’t.” 

“Right, because you didn’t want me to have decide between my morals and _you_ ,” Arthur answered like he’d heard it a dozen times. In reality, he might have heard it more than a dozen, but the proof of Merlin’s selflessness and bravery always left him feeling warm. 

Arthur shook his head. “It’s just, the thought of him knowing a side of you that I didn’t . . .” 

How many memories did Merlin and Lancelot share that Arthur didn’t? How many adventures did they have together? How much loneliness had Lancelot taken from Merlin? How many secrets and long nights did they share that Arthur never could? 

He’d missed out on a huge part of Merlin’s life. He had always wondered after Merlin and Lancelot’s closeness, and now it seemed he had his answer.

Gwen had loved Lancelot more. Merlin had allowed Lancelot to see every part of him. How could Arthur possibly compare?

When Arthur looked to him again, a teasing smirk had crept onto Merlin’s face. “Are you jealous?”

Arthur gaped and shuffled. “Of course, not!” he defended, and his tone sounded phony even to him. 

“You _are_! You’re jealous over _me_!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m not jealous, Merlin.”

The laughing grin never left Merlin’s face. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Arthur tried not to get frustrated again, but he was failing. “Look, just—Don’t let Lancelot in on anymore secrets until I know them first. Are we clear?”

“Oh, cross my heart,” said Merlin, drawing an X with his finger over his chest. “Whenever I next have a life-or-death secret, you will be the first to know.”

His tone had been sarcastic, but Arthur decided Merlin was being serious. “Good. I’d better be.”

“Are we _done_?” Merlin asked, quirking a brow.

“No. Kiss me.”

Merlin licked his lips in consideration, and decided to oblige. Arthur wrapped a fist around the collar of Merlin’s shirt to keep him in place, as if Merlin was going anywhere. Merlin kissed deeply, with a hint of greed driving him. Arthur returned it so Merlin knew he was Arthur’s, and that Arthur wouldn’t stand for anything else. 

Arthur didn’t want to break the kiss, especially after Merlin began making soft sounds whose vibrations tickled his lips. He wanted to shut the door and lock it. He wanted to take Merlin to bed. 

“Arthur, I’m—,” said a sudden voice in the doorway. Arthur pushed Merlin away, but it was too late. Lancelot was staring at them in utter shock.

Arthur froze. He was pretty certain the world stopped turning. When it started up again, he looked at Merlin, whose eyes were wide and whose lips were swollen and sleek. Arthur was sure that he, too, wore all the evidence Lancelot needed to know he hadn’t imagined what he’d just witnessed. 

Arthur and Merlin sprang into action at once. Merlin pulled Lancelot into the bedroom, and Arthur closed the door, forgetting not to slam it. 

“We can explain,” Arthur told him, trying to sound stern rather than panicked. 

Lancelot didn’t look at either of them in the eyes. His ears were flushed red. “No, no. There’s no need. I should not have—,” he cleared his throat. “I just came in to tell you Merlin is not to blame. I did not mean to come between the two of you . . . I see now that I haven’t.” 

He turned to leave, but Merlin called him back before his hand touched the doorknob. “Lancelot, wait.” Reluctantly, Lancelot stopped. 

“What you just saw,” Arthur said, gesturing between himself and Merlin. “Merlin and I . . .” 

He didn’t know how to phrase it delicately. However, Merlin continued to be the sledgehammer he always had been in the presence of teacups. “We’re married!”

“Married?” Lancelot echoed, and Arthur felt as though all hope was lost. It was a wonder Merlin managed to keep any secrets from anyone! “I don’t understand. Gaius just said you and _Gwen_ are married." 

“Yes, well, she was dead.” The excuse sounded lame even to Arthur. He powered through, despite the dubious look Lancelot was giving him. “It—it’s complicated. But Merlin and I—No one else knows.” 

“Gaius knows,” Merlin cut in. 

Aggravation flared in Arthur. “ _Gaius_ knows?” 

Merlin merely shrugged. “I had to tell _Gaius_.”

Arthur decided to deal with that later. “Fine.” He turned back to Lancelot, who had gone silent and stock-still. “No one but _Gaius_ knows.” 

“Your secret is safe with me,” Lancelot promised rapidly, looking as though he couldn’t get out of the room quickly enough. He must have had so many questions. Arthur wondered if he’d ask Merlin later.

“It’s not a secret!” Arthur told him. He hated this entire situation. He wanted to die. Again. 

Lancelot looked more confused and overwhelmed than ever. “I don’t understand.” 

Arthur couldn’t let him go until Lancelot understood him completely. “We just don’t want news of us getting out,” he put carefully, “until I can find a way to tell Guinevere.”

Surprise flashed on Lancelot’s face. He looked as though he was grappling with his knowledge.

Of course! Arthur should have known that Lancelot would be willing to keep a secret unless it directly involved Gwen.

“Gwen doesn’t know?” Lancelot asked slowly.

Arthur didn’t need to feel any more remorse than he already did, and it was beginning to feel like Lancelot was judging him. “Not yet. But I feel as though she should hear it from me.”

“Well, when are you going to tell her?” 

“I don’t know yet!”

“How can you not know?”

“Because—!”

“Because he still loves her.” 

In all the harried chaos, Arthur hadn’t been paying attention to Merlin. Neither had Lancelot. They both looked to him now, and Arthur saw right through to the downtrodden look Merlin was trying to hide.

Merlin hadn’t told Arthur about his magic because he didn’t want Arthur to have to make a hard decision. His morals or Merlin. He’d suffered and hid and lived in fear of rejection all his life, all so that Arthur wouldn’t have to decide. And, after all that, there they were: at another decision. 

Guinevere or Merlin. 

Arthur glimpsed at Merlin’s pain now, the pain that would eat him up inside but never be spoken if Arthur chose the former. 

It was suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Merlin,” Lancelot said, his tone comforting. Arthur hated him for it. Lancelot should not be the one trying to reassure Merlin. Arthur should have done that himself, but he found he couldn’t. 

“We’ve kept the others waiting long enough,” Merlin said, putting up his usual impregnable walls, the ones Arthur had only recently tore down. Merlin fit between Arthur and Lancelot and opened the door on the other side of them. Over his shoulder, he said, “Come on.” 

Arthur shared a look with Lancelot. Neither of them knew what to say, so they said nothing. They followed Merlin out, and Arthur had to trust that Lancelot wouldn’t tell anyone what he’d seen. Merlin trusted him. That had to be enough for Arthur. 

When Arthur re-entered the room, mostly everyone pretended to be busy. Elyan was flipping through a book about the Cold War that Arthur had left on the coffee table. Percival faked pointing something out to Gwaine on a blank wall, and Gwaine mocked interest. Leon looked up at the ceiling as though the exposed piping fascinated him. Only Gwen and Gaius acknowledged Arthur, Lancelot, and Merlin’s presence.

“Let’s return to business, shall we?” Arthur said, regaining everyone’s attention, as though he’d ever lost it. Under their gazes, he hoped all evidence of the kiss was gone. His shirt was still tucked in, at the very least. Merlin looked as rumpled as usual, but Arthur’s heart still skipped when a few gazes were cast in Merlin’s direction. 

Arthur cleared his throat into his fist, trying to command his thoughts. However, before he could say anything further, Gwen took charge, “It’s important that we know how Mordred has brought us back to life. We believe he and the Neo-Druids have uncovered a relic of the Old Religion in order to do so. If we find out which one, we may discover what he’s planning.” 

Arthur nodded, trying to recover. “Right,” he agreed. “We think he’s been trying to bring back my sister, but we don’t know why. There’s a chance he’s succeeded already, but if he hasn’t, we must get the relic and stop him before it’s too late.”

“We may be able to keep hope alive, sire,” said Gaius. “Mordred needs a sacrifice on the ley lines for each resurrection. These last three days, we haven’t received word of such a murder. Your friend with the authorities has doubled his search for Mordred. Perhaps he’s unable to get into the city.”

“We cannot rely on that,” Gwen countered. “He has the force of Neo-Druids behind him. Even if he hasn’t made a sacrifice, that can change at any moment. That is why we must know what we’re up against.”

“I agree, but none of us ever saw a relic,” Elyan told her, speaking for the group. “We were all unconscious when he brought us back, and then all we ever saw was the room he held us in.”

“We could go back to the inn and search it,” Leon suggested.

Arthur shook his head. “That won’t do any good. Wallace, our contact with the authorities, sent a group to search the hotel. Mordred is long gone. Whatever the relic, there’s no doubt he took it with him.” 

“Gaius, what sort of object could bring a person back from the dead?” Percival wondered. 

Gaius seemed to be thinking, and then he said, “There are accounts of many relics of the Old Religion that possess such power. Necromancers were able to bring back the body or the soul of one long dead, but never both. That kind of magic is supposed to be impossible.” 

“Except it isn’t,” Merlin corrected, his tone still slightly curt, “not for Mordred, apparently, since he managed to do it nine times. And it wasn’t impossible for whoever brought Mordred back, for that matter—because, unless there’s a body we don’t know about that fits the pattern, he wasn’t resurrected the same way you were.” 

Arthur had almost forgotten. There were nine bodies, nine sacrifices, and none of them had yielded Mordred. They hadn’t accounted for Lancelot. But, if the Neos didn’t bring Mordred back, Arthur didn’t know who could.

“We won’t know anything until we know what the relic is,” Arthur decided. “To find it, we must first find Mordred.”

The task seemed hopeless. Merlin had tried scrying for Mordred every day, but Mordred must have found a way to block the spell. His location was never revealed. 

Merlin puckered his lips in thought. “Maybe we don’t,” he considered. He went to the bookshelf and pulled out one of his journals, flipped through the pages, replaced it, and pulled out another. He went through the same motions three more times as he explained, “There’s a ritual in shamanism that allows a person’s consciousness to leave their body and journey to the spirit realm. I learned about it first in America from the Crow tribe. Vision quests were sort of like a right of passage for their tribe’s people. Here it is!”

He carried the journal, opened to the correct page, back over to the group. His eyes flickered along the page as he read and summarized, “The person on the vision quest would seek answers about their destiny from their spirit guide. The quest itself took three days to complete, but the preparation for it can last for as long as a week.” He snorted at some memory. “Trust me, it’s a long and _painful_ process. Lots of people poking you with pointy objects—.” 

“We don’t have a week,” Arthur interrupted before Merlin went off on a tangent.

Merlin shook his head quickly, like he was scolding himself for getting off track. “No, I know, but there’s a version that takes less time. Usually, it was a ritual reserved only for the medicine men. For Native Americans, medicine and magic were closely linked. They used these rituals for a lot of things. If a tribesperson came down with an illness that couldn’t be cured, or if a skin walker was harassing the camp, the medicine man would go into a trance state and ask his spirit guide for answers.”

“It can tell us what relic Mordred’s uncovered?” Gwen asked, impressed. 

“Maybe,” Merlin answered. “He’s been pulling souls from the spirit realm. You have to figure the spirit world know _something_ about it.” 

Arthur wasn’t so certain. He didn’t want to waste time if they didn’t need to. If Morgana wasn’t resurrected already, it was only a matter of time. He needed something tangible. It seemed like a better use of their efforts to find out where Mordred was, and then to steal the relic from him. But he supposed it would be a good idea to know what, in fact, they were meant to steal. 

“You’re _sure_ this will work?” Arthur asked sceptically. Merlin had said something about his consciousness leaving his body. To Arthur, that sounded a little dangerous. What if he got trapped in the spirit world? What if he never came back?

Merlin wrinkled his nose and shrug. “Sure. I’ve done it before. A while ago, but—,” he blew out his lips to hide his nerves.

Arthur had been looking for reassurance. Now, he was convinced Merlin was about to do something very stupid.

“I just need a few things,” Merlin said, looking back down at the page in front of him and tracing a few lines with his fingers. “I should be able to find the ingredients here in the city.” 

“I will go with you,” Lancelot offered, which only made Arthur feel worse because he was certain Lancelot intended to ask after their marriage. And Merlin would probably disclose everything.

“Merlin, perhaps you should allow me time to research this method before acting so hastily,” Gaius said, and Arthur was relieved. He would have liked a second opinion on this kind of magic. 

Merlin closed his journal and made for his backpack on the kitchen counter. “No need. I’ve got a handle on it. Besides, we really don’t have the time, right, Arthur?” 

Arthur felt a little bit like he was between the devil and the deep blue sea. He looked to Gwen for her opinion. She did not seem as torn on the matter. “He is right,” she said. “If Merlin thinks this will give us answers, I trust his judgment.” 

From across the room, Merlin beamed at her. She returned the smile.

Arthur let out a breath to loosen the constriction in his chest. “Very well,” he decided. “Go quickly. Take the motorbike. And Merlin—?” Maybe Arthur couldn’t prevent Merlin from doing something stupid, but he’d be damned if was going to let him do it alone. “Whatever ingredients you need, get enough for two people. I will be accompanying you on this—,” he waved his hand, trying to remember what Merlin had called it, “vision quest.”

At last, Merlin looked hesitant. 

_So, it is dangerous_ , Arthur realized, and only just managed to keep it inside.

“That won’t work,” Merlin said in ways of an excuse. “No two people have the same spirit guide. We have different souls—different consciousnesses. We won’t be able to take the quest together.”

Arthur wouldn’t accept that. “There must be a way.”

“I may know one,” offered Gaius. “There is a potion which can bind two people’s minds for a short period of time. If I have the ingredients, I may be able to make it. But, I must warn you, there’s no guarantee it will work for this. Joining two individuals’ minds is one thing. Joining their souls is another thing entirely.” 

“But it’s worth a try?”

Gaius shrugged. “There’s certainly no harm in it.”

Arthur pushed a smug, razor-sharp smile as he turned back to Merlin. “It’s settled, then. Gaius, do what you must. Merlin, Lancelot, hurry back.”

“Fine,” Merlin snipped. He looked at Gaius. “You know where the books are. Magical herbs are in the pantry. I’m low on verbena.”   He turned away sharply, and it took all of Arthur’s willpower not to violently blush. He had no idea why Merlin had felt the need to add such a detail, especially since Gaius knew about their relationship. There was a reason he was out of the herb. They went through it rather quickly, after all. It was Arthur’s favourite magical aphrodisiac. 

Merlin went to the refrigerator and took out a wrapped sandwich from the supermarket. That meant he was going to a particularly poor part of London.

“What is that?” Lancelot asked when Merlin closed the fridge and started towards the door.

“Food.”

Lancelot blinked after him, perplexed, but he followed anyway. “Are we going far?”

Merlin tore the flat’s door open and gestured for Lancelot to go through first. “No.”

He let the door swing shut behind them.

 

///

 

Nigel Cyrus had requested a meeting with Morgana that morning. She, Morgause, and Mordred were to meet him in the training facilities building on the Neos’ base. When they arrived, Cenred trailing after them, one of Cyrus’ officers led them to a large, ornate study at the heart of the building. Large windows overlooked the training grounds, stag heads were mounted over mahogany bookshelves, and antique furniture was situated around lavish rugs.

A dining table had been set up in the centre of the study with four places set. At the far end, a bald man in a smartly tailored suit was reading over a document. That is to say, he _pretended_ to read it to establish his importance. He could be none other than Nigel Cyrus. 

The officer had opened the doors for them and announced their arrival.

As he did so, Morgause quickly hissed, “Stay out here,” to Cenred, who narrowed his eyes in offense.

“I think not,” he whispered harshly back to her. “I will be present, should yourself and the Lady Morgana need protection." 

“We would find a more skilled guard in a field mouse,” she told Cenred, making a vein leap in his tensed jaw. Morgana tried to suppress a grin. “Remain here an ensure we are not disturbed.” 

When the officer was finished, Cyrus glanced up, offered a toothy grin, and said, “Come in, come in!” 

With that, they were ushered into the room, and the officer closed the doors behind him, leaving himself and a very mutinous Cenred on the other side. 

“Morgana Pendragon,” Cyrus called, standing up and walking around the table to greet her. As he did, he eyed her up and down in a way that made Morgana want to cut his heart out. “I have been waiting a long time to meet you.”

“Lord Cyrus,” Morgana said, extending her hand. When Cyrus took it, she was expecting him to kiss it. He shook it.

My, how the world had changed.

“Please, call me Nigel.”

Morgana hummed and forced a smile. “Nigel, of course. I’ve heard so much about you.” All things bad.

“I’m sure you have. Please, sit.” He pulled out the end chair opposite his and pushed it in when she sat. He left Morgause and Mordred to tend to their own places on the sides of the table as he, too, sat back down. Settling in his seat, he lifted a dinner bell next to his plate and jingled it.

Without delay, a door at the back of the study opened. Two people, a man and woman, pushed a cart with four covered dished into the room. As they got closer, Morgana noticed the black iron collars they both wore over their uniforms. She had seen a few of them around the Neos’ base. The ones who wore them were caretakers, maid staff, or target practice.

Morgana sensed a small trace of magic coming off the collars, but the enchantment was very low grade. Those who wore it were not magic users. They were slaves.

Cyrus spoke, completely ignoring the slaves as they carefully placed the dishes in front of each of them and removed the silver lids to hearty helpings of meats, cheeses, golden toast, and vegetables. “I must say, when Mordred told me about you, I wasn’t expecting someone so beautiful. Maybe I should have, if your sister is anything to go by.” 

Mordred glared at Cyrus, daring him to make one false move. Morgause’s face remained neutral. She wasn’t in the slightest bit impressed. Nor was Morgana, but she put on a pretty smile. Getting the information she wanted from the fool before her would be even easier than she’d anticipated.

“You flatter me,” she told him through her teeth. “It means a great deal coming from a leader such as yourself. I have seen your army train, and I am impressed.” At least, that part was true. Their magic was minimal, but it did add to their war tactics and skills with their weapons. They were a fearsome force to behold. 

“We’re the most powerful army in Britain,” Cyrus boasted. “The five provinces have come to fear me because of it. Even the tribes up in Scotland are scared of me.”

It took all of Morgana’s will not to roll her eyes. Somehow, she managed. “I’m certain they are. Tell me, what lands have you under your control?”

“I control the entire north regions of what was once England, all the way from Yorkshire and Humber, and up into the Scottish Lowlands.” 

Morgana held up her hand to silence him. “I do not speak of the territory you claimed after the War, but since then. You claim each of the five provinces bows to you. Surely, you’ve taken lands from them?”

Cyrus’ eyes lit up with controlled panic. “Of course! We have embassies in every province. It is important to keep an eye on their governments.”

Morgana’s expression fell, revealing how truly unimpressed she was. Quickly, she shared a look with Mordred. He had been right: Cyrus was weak. “Embassies?”

“Oh! I’m sorry! An embassy is an office for my representatives, so that my interests are seen to in the other provinces,” he tried to explain, misunderstanding her meaning. “I can’t be everywhere at once.” He laughed at his own joke. The slaves that were standing against the wall behind Cyrus’ back forced out pitiful chuckles, too.

“Yes, I am aware of what an embassy is,” Morgana told him. “But I speak of lands forcibly taken and claimed for your own.” 

He stilled. She saw anger bubbling inside of him, but it was overwhelmed by his fear of appearing inadequate. “The provinces are already under my control. For now, I don’t see a point in going to war with them, as long as they stay in line.” 

“With an army of this magnitude, you should easily be able to crush any opponents,” Morgause challenged, raising a thin brow.

“Now, sister, come,” Morgana cooed. She lied, “Nigel is right in his reasoning. There is little point in risking his soldiers. Let them continue their training. They must keep their strength for the resistance brewing.” 

Cyrus went ramrod straight. “Resistance?”

“Well, not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.” Morgana’s gaze cut through him. “Such things happen when you become too lenient with your subjects.”

Cyrus clamped his jaw at the slight. “Trust me, I am far from _lenient_. In fact, all of Britain will know my strength soon enough. It’s why you’re here.”

A thin smile came to Morgana’s face. “I was wondering when we’d get to that. Tell me, why _am_ I here?”

For a moment, Cyrus paused, as though to make his announcement more dramatic. He glared at Morgana like he was deciding whether or not to trust her. When he was finished with the theatrics, he leaned in and divulged, “It’s for a special project we’ve been working on—of my own design. We’re making a bomb.” 

Morgana blinked. It might have had more impact if she knew what a bomb was.

Mordred cleared his throat and leaned closer to her. “A weapon that causes an explosion.”

“Yes, that’s right!” Cyrus agreed, waving his hands about like an eager salesman pitching a product. “But _bigger_! This bomb will have two-hundred times the power of the _Lewinsky_!” He backtracked, “Uh, the nuke the Americans dropped on Iraq. It wiped out everything in fifty kilometres.” 

Morgana tilted her head to the side. He was trying her patience.

“But _my_ bomb,” he asserted, “will do more than that! It will wipe out entire cities, and _only_ target the non-magic users.” 

Finally, Cyrus had her attention. Morgana sat up a little straighter to show her interest. 

“How could you achieve such a thing?” Mordred inquired. 

A smug expression passed over Cyrus face. “The bomb isn’t made with science, but with magic. It feeds off magic, making it stronger. All we need is for every Neo-Druid to direct their spells and rituals to the creation of the bomb.” 

“I take it you’ve tested this weapon? This isn’t just a theory?” Morgause asked.

“It’s no theory,” Cyrus said, and Morgana knew he was speaking the truth. “We _have_ tested it on multiple occasions. You were present at the last one—,” he nodded to Mordred, “at the marketplace in London. We’ve been looking for the right way to detonate it.”

“And how many people did your bomb kill at this marketplace?” Morgana wondered.

“The bomb was able to target four non-magicals,” Cyrus said like it was an achievement, leaning back in his chair. “Fifteen more were killed or wounded by the blast.” 

“Nineteen people?” Morgana’s scepticism had returned. Surely, there had been a lot more than nineteen people in the marketplace at the time of the explosion. “Is that all? Your weapon doesn’t seem very powerful.”

“Not yet!” Cyrus’ eyes had latched onto her like she was his messiah. “But Mordred and Morgause here have told me your power of the Old Religion is unparalleled.”

Morgana lifted her chin. “I don’t deny it.” There was only one other that matched her skill. He was still alive—he and his king. Mordred had told her everything. He believed they weren’t a threat, because Arthur had no power anymore. Morgana was still wary. She would not make the same mistake twice. She would not underestimate Emyrs’ abilities. 

“That is what I need to strengthen my bomb!” Cyrus told her, his eyes frenzied. “ _You_ are the key to our success! With your power, the bomb would be perfected! It would destroy anyone in its path! Your will alone would detonate it!”

Morgana very much liked the sound of that, but she stayed the pounding in her chest. “My will?”

“Well.” Cyrus settled, and shrugged one shoulder. “You would not be able to detonate without my express permission.”

Morgana raised a brow. “So, I would be working for you?”

Cyrus chuckled. “Morgana.” He gestured vaguely. “Everyone in Britain works for _me_.”

A frown creased her brow. He shouldn’t have been so sure. The officer that had led her into Cyrus’ study had been amongst those pledging their allegiance to Morgana on that first night.

“Please,” she said, “call me Lady Morgana.” 

His expression dropped, but he controlled himself and managed to bite out, “ _Lady_ Morgana.” It gave her an immense rush of dominance.

Nonetheless, Cyrus continued, “I believe we have the same values. We both wish to live in a world that is peaceful for we who practice magic. No longer, can we allow the non-magicals to oppress our people. If they will not join our new, better world, they must be destroyed. I believe, together, we can achieve that goal.” 

Morgana took her time answering. She enjoyed watching him dangle on her hook. She looked to Morgause, and then Mordred, as though silently conferring with them. But she didn’t need to. They were all on the same page.

“I would be happy to do all I can to help you achieve your better world,” she told him.

He seemed incredibly relieved. “Excellent.” His relief transformed into zeal. “ _Excellent_!”

Morgana threw her cloth napkin down on her plate. “Now that we’re in agreement, take me to see this bomb.”

“Yes! Absolutely!” Cryus said, and then dwindled. “But first, I need to make sure you’re as powerful as they say.”

He was testing her now. She saw it in the way his brow arched and the corner of his lip pulled upward. She did not like to be tested. Under the table, her hands balled into fists. She had half a mind to kill him where he sat.

She collected herself, and continued to play along. “Of course,” she agreed with a smile. She mustered all her magic to the surface with an incantation, and her eyes glowed a piercing gold. 

At first, nothing happened. Everything was still. Cyrus looked around the room expectantly.

Behind him, the male slave began to cough and sputter. Cyrus whipped around in his chair to face him. The slave’s skin began to illuminate a hot red from within his core. His veins became a visible black. Next to him, the woman slave gasped with tears, but didn’t leave her post to aid him.

Next to Morgana, Morgause did not look at the proceedings. She took a sip of her drink, smirking around the rim. Mordred was watching, but his features were expressionless. 

The male doubled over and coughed up blood. He fell to his knees. The blood pouring from his lips became black. His body collapsed, and the light faded, leaving only blistered skin.

Cyrus continued to gape for a few beats before turning slowly around again to look at her. Something in his eyes appeared terrified, but he quickly controlled it into pushed humour.

Morgana’s humour, however, was genuine.   “Shall I show you again?”

The woman slave yelped and clasped her hand to her mouth.

“No, no, I think I’ve seen all I need to,” Cyrus said coolly. He got up from the table, paced to Morgana and offered his elbow to her. “If you’ll follow me?” She hooked her arm in his and allowed him to lead her. 

He took them out of the training facilities, where a car was waiting for them on the drive. They drove across the base to an armoured building with a high wall and guards patrolling the front of it. Once inside, Cyrus led them to a lift and they descended into the vaults. Two other guards, holding assault rifles, were positioned outside a locked door at the bottom of the lift. Morgana recognised them as her followers, too, but paid them no mind.

“Sir,” they both said upon seeing Cyrus, but their eyes were on Morgana.

One of them produced a key and opened the door for them. Morgana stepped inside a dark room. The only light was inside a display case in the centre of the room. The sphere was small, perhaps a foot across, and floating midair. It radiated an intense white.

“Here she is,” Cyrus said proudly as they crowded around the bomb.

Morgana could sense the magic it held. It was limited, but she had never felt something so pure. The weapon _was_ magic—not a catalyst for it, not a totem or a relic. It was unadulterated magic. Just looking at it made Morgana’s heart light. She had never seen anything so perfect. 

“It is beautiful,” she said, truly meaning it.

“It is, sister,” said Morgause, moving to stand next to her.

Morgana looked across the display case at Mordred. The orb made his eyes sparkle, and painted his face in its glow. He found her gaze, and regarded her with a soft expression.

“It is _power_ ,” Cyrus corrected, recapturing Morgana’s attention. “Soon, everyone will see it. Thanks to you. I want you to detonate one tomorrow. I’ll come with you, and we’ll bring as many of my soldiers as you see fit. We will show the world how powerful we are.”

Morgana couldn’t have planned it better herself. “I will do as you ask,” she agreed, “but I have one condition. I am to pick the location.”

Cyrus hesitated momentarily, but then nodded. “Yes! Just make sure we have an audience.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Morgana assured him, smiling back down at the orb, “we will have all the witnesses we need.” 

After they left the armoury, Morgana parted with Cyrus. A car drove her, Morgause, and Mordred back to her residence. As soon as they were inside, Morgause eagerly asked, “What is it you’re planning?”

Morgana grinned and placed a hand to Morgause’s cheek. “You already know,” she cooed, and left her sister to walk into the parlour. “When I use that weapon, I want Arthur and Emrys to bear witness. Mordred, go to London. Speak to your spies. We need to know everywhere my dear brother goes if we are to detonate the weapon in his presence.” 

Mordred bowed his head to show he understood. “Do you think it’s wise to seek him out?” he then asked. He always did worry about her too much. “If he sees you, he may try to kill you.” 

“No, he will not,” Morgause said, stepping forward. “He’ll be too distracted.” Morgana was truly happy her sister understood what she was planning. “I will go to Avalon at once, sister.” 

Morgana made a small, grateful curtsy. “Take Cenred with you. He can do the heavy lifting.”

At this, Morgause let out a laugh. “It is all he is useful for.” With that, she left.

When Morgana turned back to Mordred, his eyes still lingered on the door. “She shouldn’t take Cenred. I don’t trust him. You said Morgause was the one who killed him. What if he seeks revenge?”

Morgana was truly touched. It was one thing that Mordred cared for her so much, but it seemed he also cared for Morgause. Morgana was glad. Together, they could be a family. Soon, the kingdom would be theirs.

“Oh, don’t fret, Mordred,” she said, moving to him and holding his hands in her own. “Cenred has always followed her around like a lovesick puppy. She could kill him a thousand times, and it would not change a thing. He is obedient. He is no threat, I assure you.” 

Mordred remained uncertain. She saw it written clearly on his face. He thought Cenred a liability.

“Don’t worry about him,” she advised. “We have bigger concerns. Arthur and Emrys.”

Mordred’s jaw set in anger, and she was happy to see the fire reigniting inside of him. She let go of his hands and backed away.

“Go,” she told him. “We will meet again shortly.”

He stayed, not wanting to leave her. She felt the same. She did not want to part from him. The last time she had was the last time she saw him alive. But they both had work to do, and she could not let her fears of losing him again rule her. 

They would see each other again. She had to hold on to that hope. This was a new world, after all. It would be kinder to them.

“We _will_ ,” she said soothingly, and smiled. “Go, Mordred. I will await your return.” 

Trusting her, he offered a smile in return. He bowed low and departed.

 

///

 

Gwen stared out the window onto the street, watching Merlin hand his spare motorcycle helmet to Lancelot below. It was scarlet red throughout and had a pristine shine to it, and was probably Arthur’s whenever Merlin convinced him to get on the motorbike. 

She bit her lower lip as Lancelot fit the helmet over his head, disappearing his handsome features. His fingers fumbled at something under his chin. Merlin’s laughter was silent from the distance, only rumbling shoulders and squinted eyes, before he helped Lancelot with the adjustment strap.

The engine thundered as the two rode off, but Gwen couldn’t peel herself away from the window. She stared at the empty pavement, as though waiting for them to return. She wondered how many times she used to peer out the stained glass windows of her chambers in Camelot, looking down at the cobbled streets, in search of someone. 

She always told herself she’d been looking for Arthur, who Merlin promised was to return some day. In her heart, she knew she was awaiting another. She’d begun her watch while Arthur still breathed. It took the form of a fleeting glance out a window as she passed it, or quick eyes scanning the crowd on any given day, or with a remorseful heart that sometimes questioned itself despite her mind’s affection and her wish to leave the past behind. 

Her final days had been filled with thoughts of Arthur, though indirectly. She was not sure how fully she believed in Merlin’s words of destiny’s promise at the time, but she prayed for Arthur’s return, not for her sake but for the sake of the people of Camelot. He would fiercely defend the peace and prosperity that flourished under Gwen’s rule. As she died, Arthur would live. He would not stand for the downfall of Camelot; he would rid it of the Saxons.

Arthur was the future.

But, when she thought about the past, beyond the duty of a queen, she did not think of Arthur. She thought of Lancelot, of how much she missed him. She prayed for a chance to see him again. Now that she had it, she wasn’t certain what to do with it. 

Arthur had returned; so had Lancelot. She had waited for them both. She had chosen her path once, and she did not regret it. Now, however, it felt like she was getting another chance. And she had the creeping sensation that her decision had already been made for her.

A presence was hovering next to her, forcing her out of her thoughts. She turned slightly to find Gaius next to her, looking out the window, too.

“He’ll return soon, Gwen,” he said, ever direct. Gaius never wasted time asking questions to which he already knew the answer. “Do not worry about him.”

“I worry for them all,” she answered honestly. As a queen, she worried about the dispatched patrols, the soldiers sent to hold back the Saxon armies, the merchants and the messengers. They were all under her protection. She was responsible for their safety. More than that, she cared—for her people, for her friends. She had always worried, even before the crown wreathed her head. 

“Even Merlin,” she added.

Gaius nodded with the same heaviness she felt, but he said, “He is more than capable of taking care of himself.”

“Yes, he certainly thinks so, which is why we must worry.” 

She looked back to the pavement and knew she and Gaius weren’t the only ones worrying after Merlin. There was another, though he’d remain silent about it. However, Gwen could not remain quiet on the matter any longer. 

“It appears he and Arthur have grown very close as of late,” she said, hinting at a question that had been scratching at the peripherals of her mind for days.

Gaius shuffled a little. “They have always been close, my lady,” he said evenly. Though, she knew him well enough to know when he was acting cagily. It confirmed her suspicions. Gaius knew something he wasn’t saying. He was keeping some secret for Merlin, as was his custom. 

She oriented herself towards him, seeking his full attention. “There is something between them.” She had meant it to be a question, but it came out differently. She knew there was something, she just didn’t know what exactly. 

A sigh escaped Gaius. He looked at her guardedly. “It is not for me to say.”

She lifted her chin, understanding the hidden meaning of his words. She nodded in acceptance and turned back to the window.

Guiltily, she realised Gaius’ words had brought her hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Not many people could both terrify and exhilarate Lancelot at the same time. In fact, there were probably only two he could think of. Merlin was one of them. Journeying with him was always an experience in the new and unbelievable, and this time was no different.

The contraption he called a motorbike was so fast that Lancelot thought his insides would be torn from him by the wind alone. The noise rattled his head and shook vibrations throughout him. Even when they had stopped, the engine still revved in his ears and the tingling sensation of motion lingered in his bones. 

Leave it to Merlin to show him things he never thought possible, to take him to whole new worlds.

The said new world around them was a bustling one. Merlin parked the motorbike on the street corner and suggested they walk the rest of the way, because he didn’t want to risk it being stolen in the place they were going. It made Lancelot wonder after their destination. If they were venturing into perilous territory, it was a good thing he’d come along to aid Merlin. Although, he wished he had his sword. 

Merlin started down the pavements, Lancelot in tow. At first, Lancelot let his gaze wander as he searched the area around him. Masses shoved past him in cluttered whirlwinds, foul smells clouded him, carriage wheels creaked and bells tinkled on what looked like simpler versions of Merlin’s motorbike. The ground shook and smoke rose from the manholes in the road. A beggar sitting on the pavements held out his arms beseechingly as he pleaded for spare change, but no one gave him any. On the other side of the road, a group of people were shouting and holding up crude cardboard signs reading _Repent_ or _Jesus Saves_.

At one point, Lancelot nearly walked into a rack of colourful dresses standing in front of a shop; and a man with an accent Lancelot couldn’t place harassed him to buy one for “the pretty girl in his life.” Lancelot politely explained to him that he hadn’t a woman his life and he was currently on a quest, but he would be happy to return later to view the man’s selection.

At least, he would have said that if Merlin hadn’t grabbed him by the arm and tugged him away.

Very quickly after that, Lancelot learned it was best to stay his wandering eye, no matter how many lights and sounds attracted it. He was too afraid he’d lose Merlin when he wasn’t paying attention, only to be left stranded. Because, while Lancelot fumbled through the thick crowd muttering sincere apologies that no one acknowledged, Merlin was _very_ good at weaving his way along.

He seemed to anticipate every movement of the people around him. He threaded this way and that, sidestepping and angling his body to fit through small gaps, never touching another person. That, with the addition of his long legs carrying him in impossibly fast strides, made Lancelot have to jog to keep up. Even so, Merlin was far ahead of him.

Occasionally, Merlin would glance over his shoulder to make sure Lancelot was still there. He slowed slightly each time, but it didn’t last long. He always reverted back to quick paces. Lancelot realised that Merlin simply wasn’t accustomed to having a walking partner.

They walked for over twenty minutes, and Lancelot noticed the crowd had tapered off greatly. Then, it disappeared altogether. The area of the city they were in now was a stark contrast to where they’d come from. This part was desolate and in ruin. Rubbish littered the torn-up streets, and broken glass crunched under his shoes. There were bars on every window, and metal gates with damaged locks on the doors. It reminded Lancelot of a village abandoned because of plague or an evil enchantment. He wondered what curse had befallen this place.

Lancelot quickened his pace to keep in stride with Merlin. “What is this place?” he asked, looking around for any signs of life. In her makeshift shelter of a doorway, a woman wrapped in blankets grunted and turned over in sleep. 

“The bad part of town. Well, one of them, anyway,” Merlin said.

That was fairly obvious, but Lancelot didn’t comment on that. At the end of the block, they turned a corner, and a man limped down the road towards them. His head hung low and one foot dragged behind him in his slow procession. Matted hair and deep purple veins crawled up his neck, protruding out from his tattered, yellowed vest. Both arms hung limply at his sides, swaying as he shuffled. One of his hands was severely discoloured—a mix of red and black, looking as though it was filled with blood. The flesh of his other arm appeared like an animal had eaten it. It was mangled and greying, and Lancelot thought he saw some bone. 

As the man got closer, he looked up, revealing the same discolouration spotting his cheeks. A scar ran down his forehead and cheek. His bloodshot eyes gaped at Merlin and Lancelot, and Lancelot found himself looking away until they passed the man. 

“What happened to him?” he whispered with concern, wondering who else had been affected. Was it magic or disease? 

Merlin gave a very heavy sigh and put his hands in his jacket pockets. Lancelot was suddenly aware of the damp chill in the air. 

“He did it to himself,” Merlin said, a trace of sadness lining his tone—but not enough. There was too much resolve in his voice. Like he’d given up. Lancelot guiltily found himself wondering if Merlin had even fought in the first place. 

“It’s a drug. Lapis. It’s been around since the turn of the nineties, but it’s only become popular over the last few years, and the police are having trouble finding out who’s trafficking it into the city. Their best guess is the Neos. Lapis has magical properties. The high gives different users different low-grade abilities—telekinesis, the ability to fly, physic powers, astral projection. The list goes on. There was even one report of a girl turning her father into a rat while high, and then she couldn’t turn him back. The high is very temporary, but highly addictive.” 

Of course, Lancelot had encountered such substances before, but never the magical kind. In his travels, he’d met people reliant on poppy milk and other opiates. His heart ached for those decaying under their vices. He could understand their loneliness and pain, but he could never understand their reasons for withdrawing from the world. “Who would do such a thing to themselves?” 

“Do you blame them?” Merlin said bitterly, making a vague gesture. Lancelot almost stopped walking in his shock. He’d not expected Merlin to say such a thing. He’d expected Merlin to want to help them.

“Anyway,” Merlin went on. “There’s a dealer—er, someone who sells it—that lives around here. He’s been arrested a few times, but they can’t make it stick. That’s who we’re going to see.” 

Lancelot’s jaw slackened in horror. “You want to _purchase_ such a thing?”

The corner of Merlin’s lips curved in amusement. “No.” He did not elaborate. 

“Then, why are we here?” Merlin had stayed silent on the topic, and he knew Lancelot would follow him into hell if need be. But Lancelot thought he should know what they were going into, just so he could be prepared to defend them both.

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” Merlin teased. His eyes were scanning each door they passed, and he abruptly halted at one with a dilapidated number nine hanging off its screws. Merlin raised a fist to the door and gave a few hard pounds. As he did, Lancelot tried to peer into the windows, but the heavy curtains were drawn.

Adrenaline was starting to pump through his system. The hairs on his neck stood on end like he was being watched.

“You should stay out here,” Merlin told him coolly before Lancelot could search the street for anyone watching them. Merlin shook out his whole body like he was trying to make himself limber. Was he preparing for a fight? 

“What? Merlin—,” he began to protest, but then the door opened up a crack. The chain of one of the locks was still bolted, allowing only an eye to look out. 

“The fuck are you?” said a female voice from inside.

Merlin fidgeted profusely. He scratched at his beard and bit at the inside of his cheek. His eyes darted wildly and his frame swayed where he stood. “I’m—uh—lookin’ for Reggie. He in?” he said in a skittish voice so different from his own. Every inch of him was riddled with nerves. Lancelot narrowed his eyes in perplexity. 

“Who’s askin’?” the eye demanded.

Merlin bounced up at down a little and looked over his shoulder in a display of paranoia. “Look, he don’t know me. I’m a new—uh—new _customer_.”

The eye blinked slowly.

Merlin looked even more nervous than before. “Someone told me I could find Reggie here. Look—just. I need to see him.” His voice was thick now, begging. “ _Please_.”

Quickly, the eye said, “Nah, Reggie ain’t ‘ere. Don’t know any Reggie.”

The door began to close, but Merlin slammed his body into it to keep it open ajar. “Wait! Wait! Look! I got—I got somethin’ for him.” He stepped back and held up his palms in a gesture of peace. He looked down, and Lancelot saw his eyes briefly sparkle gold. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. “Look? See?”

The eye looked interested. “Alright. Who’s ‘e?”

Lancelot realised she was scrutinizing him. He froze, a lump in his throat, wondering if he was expected to put on the same performance Merlin had.

“He’s my—uh—I hired him,” Merlin said cagily. By the way he said _hired_ , it was very clear what he meant. Lancelot tried to train his face to play along, but embarrassment cause a pink colour to creep up his neck. 

After a pause, the eye said, “Alright. Pretty boy stays out ‘ere. You, come in.”

“Right,” Merlin said with a nod as the door closed. There were some scraping sounds and then it opened again, fully this time. An emaciated, barely dressed woman winced in the sunlight and stood to the side to let Merlin in.

Merlin flashed Lancelot a meaningful look before going inside. Lancelot’s pulse pounded as he decided what to do. He wanted to race in after Merlin, but that would probably blow their cover. Before he could think of anything else, Merlin disappeared and the door closed, followed by locking sounds.

Lancelot watched the door for a few beats, like he expected it to open again. He hated abandoning Merlin, but he would just have to trust him. After all, Merlin was more than capable of handling himself.

Lancelot told himself that over and over until it became a mantra in his mind. It soothed him slightly as he scanned the street around him. No one was around. Everything was quiet. He realised all the windows were darkened, and the lights hanging from cables over the street didn’t flash red, green, and yellow, like they had only a few streets over.

He wanted to investigate the area further, or possibly to find that drug addled man and help him in whatever way he could. However, he wouldn’t leave for fear that Merlin might need him. 

After a few minutes that felt like hours, Lancelot heard someone hiss his name from close by. He looked to his left to find Merlin peeking his head out from an ally. He motioned Lancelot over. 

Lancelot hustled over to him. “What happened in there?” he asked with concern. 

“Got what I needed,” Merlin told him with an ear-to-ear grin. He opened his jacket to show Lancelot the brown paper bag he held close to his chest. He shrugged out of his backpack, opened the top flap, and fit the bag inside. “But we’d better get out of here. They think I’m in the toilet shooting up. I escaped out the window.” 

“Shooting up—?” Lancelot balked, suddenly very worried what Merlin had bought for himself and Arthur. “Merlin, what are you planning? Don’t lie to me.” 

“Don’t worry so much,” Merlin cooed. “It’s nothing bad—just some stuff I needed for the ritual. It’s not exactly like there are shops selling ingredients to magic potions anymore. Hence, the seediness. Now, c’mon! Before they notice I’m gone.”

Merlin retreated back into the ally, and Lancelot was glad to at least be leaving the area. The knot in his chest loosened with every step, but it tightened again every time his eyes darted to Merlin’s bag. If it was for a spell, Lancelot was certain Merlin knew what he was doing. He was just wary of where the ingredients had come from. The very thought of that Lapis drug’s effects still caused his blood to run cold.

As they walked, he kept his wits about him until they reached the outskirts of the busy area where the motorbike was parked. Horse and buggies clonked down the streets, and a few pedestrians skittered about their day.

Lancelot breathed a little easier, despite the suffocating smog in the area. Thankfully, Merlin was strolling at his side, so Lancelot once again allowed his mind to wander in fascination of this new world. It posed so many questions, some of which he was eager to learn the natures. Though, there were many things that saddened him. For all the advances of the modern world, he thought there would be no more wars or poverty, no need for violence or suffering. In Camelot, they had been working towards peace. It seemed they never achieved it. 

Part of him felt as though he’d be taken back to Camelot at any moment. They were only visiting this world, and would soon return home to continue their mission of peace. But they weren’t. Lancelot would have to learn to live in the twenty-first century, where everything was so foreign, even the man walking next to him. 

Merlin. Merlin and Arthur. Lancelot never saw it coming, though he guessed he should have. Of course, they had been close, but Arthur had always been so happy with Gwen, and vice versa. It was why Lancelot did not dare come between them. Because, while Merlin was one person who could both simultaneously thrill and terrify Lancelot, so was Gwen—only, for a very different reason.

He had always been so certain of his feelings for her—they surmounted everything, even his own happiness. He knew her heart belonged to Arthur, so he remained at a distance. It was better for them both. 

But what of her happiness when Arthur told her about his new marriage? Lancelot could not bear the thought of her in pain, to suffer as he had for so long and so quietly. The way, he realised, Merlin had his whole life.

Lancelot surveyed him out of the corners of his eyes as they walked. “You and Arthur,” he began, not able to help himself, “how—? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

The corner of Merlin’s lips quirked up softly. He turned his eyes to the pavements. “How did it happen?” he interpreted.

Lancelot nodded, hoping he wasn’t overstepping any bounds. Merlin had usually been open with him. Perhaps he still would be.

“I’m not really sure,” Merlin mused. For the first time Lancelot had seen, he looked happy—or, at least, like he remembered what happiness was. “It was about half a year after he returned. He was trying to make tea, and he—,” he snorted in humour, “is _still_ complete and total rubbish at it. I told him so, and he got angry. He said he was a king and he should have people to do things like make tea _for_ him. And I said, too bad because I’m all he has now and I’m certainly not doing it anymore. And he . . .”

Merlin paused. The crowd around them had thickened out, and some people cast them glares as they shoved past, but Lancelot halted, too. He turned to Merlin.

“We just . . .”

“He must have been very grateful for you,” Lancelot suggested, because Merlin still looked in awe that anything had happened between them at all.

However, Merlin’s expression turned to gloom. “Grateful, yeah,” he swallowed hard.

Lancelot’s brow lined with concern. “Merlin?”

“What if he loved me _because_ I was the only one he had?”

Lancelot tensed upon seeing the real fear in his friend’s eyes. Surely, theirs couldn’t have been a love born of convenience. “I don’t believe that,” he said in ways of comfort. He leaned in and raised his brows. “I saw you together, remember? Arthur appeared very smitten, and you’re not all he has now, are you?”

Merlin exhaled heavily as he considered the words. His shoulders dropped slightly, so he must have been at least somewhat comforted. “Maybe,” he grumbled. 

Suddenly, Merlin seemed to realise where they were. He looked around him, at the shops, at the mob shouting about Jesus, at the faces in the crowd. He must have spotted what he was looking for, because he said, “Hang on. I’ve just got one more thing to do and then we can go back.” 

Before Lancelot could respond, Merlin pushed up the block through the masses, and Lancelot did his best to follow. Soon, he lost sight of Merlin, and his heart began to hammer frantically until, through the crowd, he caught sight of Merlin kneeling in front of the beggar Lancelot had seen earlier.

Merlin said a few words to the beggar. He nodded and smiled in a way that suggested he was really listening when the man spoke back. Then, Merlin reached into his backpack and produced the sandwich he’d taken from the flat. He handed it to the beggar, who gaped down at it like it was a banquet. “Bless you,” Lancelot saw the beggar say as he took the food between his fraying fingerless gloves, and worked at the plastic wrap with rough, dirty fingers. Merlin offered him one last smile and a touch to the shoulder before standing up and walking back to Lancelot.

As he did, Lancelot looked at him in astonishment. He’d seen Merlin give food to Camelot’s beggars many times, but he realised he hadn’t expected it of this new Merlin. After all, Merlin now looked like a vagrant himself. He was callous and hollow, because he was required to be. Lancelot assumed there was much Merlin had to let go of, so it must have been easier not to become attached in the first place. Lancelot neither blamed nor judged Merlin for it—but it appeared he’d misread Merlin. 

It was not callousness. Merlin still cared about everything so very deeply. That had always been his burden. All this time, and he still had his kindness.

“What? Lancelot?” he realised Merlin was saying.

Lancelot shook himself out of his thoughts. “It’s nothing. I . . . I just thought food was scarce these days.” 

“Thanks to the Neos, yeah,” Merlin confirmed. “Arthur and I try to stretch out our rations when we can so those who can’t afford food can eat. It’s better than giving them money. Some of them just use that to get alcohol, or they end up at a place like where we just came from.”

No, Merlin’s heart hadn’t shrunk at all. In fact, it may have gotten bigger. Lancelot felt a smile on his face. He could not express how glad he was to see a glimpse of the Merlin he once knew. Perhaps living in this new world wouldn’t be difficult, after all. 

“That is very kind of you.”

Merlin shrugged in a blasé way. “Well, who else is going to do it?” He pointed his chin at the group of people across the street, still waving their signs about how god saves. “Them?”

Merlin started off again, muttering thoughts aloud about where he parked his motorcycle. Lancelot remained momentarily, looking over his shoulder at the cardboard signs bobbing up and down in the sea of people.

 

///

 

When they got back to the flat, Merlin parked the motorbike in the garage next to the Golf. The garage was on the ground level on the opposite side of the building from Merlin’s flat. It was giant, large enough to fit a hundred cars, with high ceilings and massive square windows that let in the light from the street. A few other cars were parked inside: a Mini, a sedan, an SUV, and so on. Merlin didn’t know if any of them still ran, or why their owners had left them behind. All of them were caked thickly in cement dust, and Merlin never paid them any mind.

He and Lancelot went through a door that led to the entrance floor of the building. The hallways were decorated with clues to what the factory must have once been in its previous life. Reeds, treadles, and other spare parts to power looms hung from the walls along with ancient factory signs from so many different places that it was impossible to tell which once originally belonged to that particular factory. Some of the original building’s materials were preserved: exposed brick, giant iron doors, and the light fixtures on the wooden ceilings. It must have once looked chic for an apartment complex, but now, it was dark, run down, and dismal.

No one in their right mind would want to call it home, so Merlin didn’t.

They went to the stairs halfway through the building, and almost began their ascent when something banged loudly and suddenly from down below. Whatever it was caused a small tremor beneath Merlin’s feet. Merlin held out his palm immediately, his hairs standing on end and his magic bubbling against his skin in preparation. Lancelot, too, stood at the ready, despite his lack of weapon. 

Nothing happened. There was only darkness and their ragged breaths.

“What was that?” Lancelot whispered. He stiffly turned this way and that.

Merlin strained his ears for any sound. There was a muffled hissing coming from behind the door at the end of the hall. It led to the basement. 

“This way,” he said, and paced cautiously towards the door. He kept his eyes on the iron face, just in case it opened and Merlin had to react swiftly. When they reached it, they stood on either side and shared a tense look.

With a nod, Lancelot tore the door open and jumped through the threshold, brandishing his fists. Merlin was right behind him. No one was there, but Merlin realised what the hissing sound was. It was much louder now that the door was open.

A pipe had burst. Torrents sprang from it, raining down a storm on the hard floor. There was already a shallow pool ebbing against the walls and breaking against the bottom step.

Merlin dropped his shoulders, relaxing. “It’s alright. This building is old and the pipes are rusted. It happens sometimes.” 

As Lancelot settled, Merlin handed him his backpack, squeezed past him, and jostled down the steps. When he reached it, the water instantly soaked through his shoes and socks. The bottom of his jeans were sopping as they became submerged. He groaned in complaint at the frigid wetness, but he powered through. As he neared the broken pipe, heavy currents poured down onto him until his clothes were drenched through and his hair was matted to his forehead. The sound of the water thundered around him.

He spit out water from his lips and blinked it from his eyes as he looked up at the damage. He raised his palm, and the pipe repaired itself. 

“That should hold for now,” he reported, turning back to Lancelot. It was freezing in the basement, which Merlin hadn’t realised until that moment. He huddled in on himself as his teeth chattered. Drops of water were zigzagging down his face from his hair and making soft clinking sounds as they fell from his clothes into the pool below.

“I see indoor plumbing has its disadvantages,” Lancelot teased as Merlin waded back to the steps. 

Merlin shrugged out his arms, making a suctioning smacking sound when they hit his sides again. “I can’t argue with you there.”

He reached the bottom step and started up it. Lancelot’s easy laughter carried over his shoulder as he turned for the door. 

Merlin heard his own name calling him from behind.

He started and spun around towards the voice. No one was there. Then he looked down into the stilling surface of the water. Freya was looking up at him, her skin tinted blue in the darkness.

Merlin let his breath catch up with him as he clutched his chest, trying to steady his heart thrashing against his breastbone. “ _Jesus_ , Freya!” he let out.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you,” she told him apologetically, but that was nothing new. Her tone had always been soft and sad.

Lancelot settled at Merlin’s side to get a better look. His expression was alert and fascinated. Merlin remembered it so well from every other time Lancelot had come face-to-face with something magic that wasn’t a foe. He eagerly drank in all the knowledge he could on magic. Nostalgia bled into Merlin’s heart.

“You didn’t,” he told Freya once he’d calmed down. 

“You certainly looked afraid,” she answered. 

Merlin opened his mouth to deny it, but Lancelot admitted, “I know I was. I am Lancelot.” 

“I know,” Freya said, regarding him with a warm smile. Lancelot seemed spellbound that such a creature knew of him. But, then again, he did not understand that hundreds of generations over the ages knew his name. He was the most famed of Arthur’s knights, though his reputation didn’t do him the least bit of justice—a fact that always caused Merlin to lament.

“This is Freya,” Merlin introduced, gesturing to the stagnant pool.

“I’m sorry for the mess, Merlin,” Freya said, “but I _have_ been trying to reach you.”

And there it was, the _why have you been avoiding me_. Merlin’s stomach churned guiltily. “Sorry. I’ve been—um—busy?” And then he realised what she’d said. “Hold on, _you_ burst the pipe?” He recalled the last few times it happened: the day Merlin had found Archie, and a few days before Arthur’s return. Had that been Freya, too?

She nodded briefly. “What I have to tell you is urgent. It concerns Arthur.”

Merlin forgot everything else. His expression hardened. “What is it?” Next to him, Lancelot stood straighter, like he was getting into a defensive position. 

“When he returned from Avalon, he did not come alone,” she said. “When the gates of Avalon opened, they permitted another through. This, you already know.” 

Merlin shook his head, not understanding. “Lots of people have come through Avalon since then,” he said, and gestured to Lancelot. “Case in point. Mordred’s been resurrecting them. Avalon had been quite busy recently.”

The water rippled as Freya shook her head. “No, Merlin. I am speaking of the day Arthur returned. When he crossed through, he brought Mordred with him.” 

The room was suddenly lopsided, and Merlin was numb to the chill on his skin. “What?” He should have known. The Neos hadn’t brought Mordred back; they hadn’t the power. Only the Old Religion held such sway over life and death.

As though Freya read his mind, she continued, “Arthur and Mordred’s fates are bound together.”

There had been a prophecy suggesting something like that, Merlin remembered. He’d heard it from a witch in Sweden. He mentally kicked himself. He _should_ have known!

“Bound?” Lancelot inquired.

“They killed each other,” Freya explained, “with blades forged in magic. From that moment on, their fates were joined.” _Fate_. It was different than destiny. Arthur and Mordred’s destiny had always been intertwined, not their fates. The distinction rattled Merlin.

Freya went on, “That is why you could not save Arthur the first time. Mordred had died, so Arthur had to as well. And, when Arthur was resurrected, Mordred followed.”

Merlin’s head was spinning. He’d mentally gone over his final days with Arthur so many times. He’d thought about different routes they may have taken to Avalon. He came up with a slew of varying events that could have resulted in saving Arthur’s life. He’d thought it in vain before, but now his regrets took on a new shape. From the moment Arthur’s sword pierced Mordred’s heart, he’d been a dead man.

Merlin should have gotten to Camlann sooner. He should have found Arthur in time. He should have killed Mordred himself.

Putting the past aside, there still remained a huge implication for the future. “If Mordred dies again, so does Arthur,” he whispered, knowing it to be true.

Freya’s doe eyes glistened, or maybe that was just the dim light reflecting on the water. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “But, Merlin, there is more. The Gates of Avalon are still open. Mordred has used the breech to pull more souls from the afterlife.” 

Merlin glanced at Lancelot from the corner of his eyes. Lancelot had gone very still. He wore a pained, severe expression, as though he were guilty of returning by Mordred’s hand.

“How?” Merlin demanded. If Freya knew the answer, they could skip the vision quest altogether. “That power is beyond him. You must have seen how he’s taking the souls.” She wasn’t just a link to Avalon; she was its living embodiment, or so Merlin thought.

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t,” she told him. “Bringing a life forth when it is not meant to pass through the gates takes powerful magic. It draws power from all of Avalon, even me. In those moments, my spirit cannot be sustained. I don’t exist.”

Merlin had called for Freya after Gaius’ returned. When she hadn’t come, he thought she’d been ignoring him. He should have given her more credit. She’d never been as petty as him.

“Arthur’s return was different. The Old Religion had been gaining power so that it may bring him back on the appointed time of his destiny,” she went on, and Merlin remembered a different prophecy. It was always stated along with _Arthur will united the lands of Albion_.

There was an “and” in that prophecy _._

_Arthur will unite the lands of Albion and bring magic back to the land._

And he did. The Old Religion had returned for him.

Merlin realised Freya was still speaking. “I saw him pass through. It’s how I saw Mordred return with him.” Her voice turned urgent. “Merlin, only a certain amount of magic was meant to return to the world. What Mordred has done has endangered everyone. With each soul that crosses through Avalon’s gates, the gap widens. More things are allowed through.” 

“The creatures of magic,” Merlin realised. “That’s why they’ve returned, and how their numbers have grown.”

Freya nodded. “You must close the gates.”

Merlin thought back to all the natural disasters before the War. As magic grew, it rained chaos onto the earth. An excess of it would tear the world apart.

“How?”

Freya thinned her lips, looking apologetic again. “It requires a mortal sacrifice to Avalon.”

Merlin realised he was staring warily at Lancelot out of the corners of his eyes. Lancelot continued his rapt silence, but there was a rigidness to his posture that told Merlin he was thinking of the same memory. Lancelot had sacrificed himself before; Merlin wouldn’t even let him think about doing it again.

Again, Freya spoke. “I have told you all I know. If I learn anything else, I will attempt to contact you, Merlin.” There was no slight in her voice, but the word _attempt_ was emphasized. But Merlin wouldn’t make the mistake of avoiding her again. He nodded shortly to show his understanding. 

“Thank you, Freya,” he said, heartfelt with heaviness.

“Of course,” she told him. She looked as though she was about to fade back into the depths of the water, but she stopped before becoming fully transparent. “It was good to see you again, Merlin,” she said with the same fondness, and sadness, she’d always held for him. Longing and wistfulness ripped a tear into his heart. And then she was gone. 

After a pause in which the information sunk in, Lancelot said, “We must to tell the others.”

He started to turn. Merlin jolted and grabbed Lancelot’s arm to forestall him. “No! We can’t tell Arthur.”

Lancelot’s expression darkened into perplexity. 

Merlin explained, “If he must die when Mordred does, it means the reverse is also true. The _last_ thing we want is for Arthur to sacrifice himself to kill Mordred.” And he would if it came to it, the noble git. Merlin couldn’t bear to find Arthur’s body after he’d thrown himself on his sword or jumped from the rooftop. He wouldn’t allow it.

“What if we meet Mordred again and Arthur tries to kill him?” asked Lancelot, pointing out a major flaw in the plan.

Merlin blinked, trying to regain composure. He didn’t have an answer. For now, he just had to pray Mordred would stay away. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. “Just, please, Lancelot. I need to think this over first. Promise me you won’t tell Arthur." 

Lancelot didn’t seem too happy about it, but he would do it. He’d always been good at keeping Merlin’s secrets. “I won’t tell anyone,” Lancelot promised, and it was enough for Merlin. Lancelot’s word was always true. 

“Thank you,” Merlin said, sounding heavy again. At some point, the drops of water had lessened. They were no longer adding to the puddle at his feet. “Now, come on. We should be getting back. I’ll clean up this mess later.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking about the basement or his life.

He started up the stairs. Lancelot followed.

 

///

 

Arthur paced around the kitchen eagerly as Gaius stood over the stove. Something that looked like sludge and smelt no better was bubbling in a pot, and Arthur couldn’t believe he’d be expected to drink it. Merlin and Lancelot had been gone for nearly two hours, and Arthur’s patience was beginning to run short. He wanted to see progress, even if it that progress was Gaius finishing his disgusting potion.

Behind Arthur, Gwen sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the ancient book Gaius had used for the potion’s recipe. 

The flat’s door opened, and Arthur expectantly whipped around to it. He deflated when he saw Wallace, a long duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, walking through. His knights, however, all stood to attention and glared at Wallace like he was a threat. Wallace reacted by jerking his head back and staring them down in turn, clearly not appreciating the gravity of how easily all of the men before him could break his limbs. 

“Wallace, this is a—,” Arthur began, mostly to settle his men, but had to fish for the right word. “Surprise,” he landed on. By the way his voice rose an octave around the word, it sounded more like a question than a statement. 

“Yeah, well, this isn’t a social call,” Wallace said. He made for the kitchen and slammed the duffle on the counter. Whatever was inside clinked loudly. He went into the side pocket and pulled out a few ID cards. “Came to drop the rest of these off.” He literally dropped them. They scattered next to the leftover herbs Gaius had cut up.

“Also, what with everything going on, I thought it was a good idea your boys here have a way of protecting themselves.” He unzipped the main part of the bag to reveal five swords within. “I’m guessing you all know how to use these?” 

“I think we’ll manage,” Gwaine said, immediately bounding towards the swords. Arthur saw how his fingers itched for first dibs. Elyan, Percival, and Leon crowded around. They dug through the duffle like children with sweets.

Wallace jumped back, holding his hands up as though in surrender. “Have at it, I guess. Just don’t carry them around in the city, all right? That shit might fly in the other provinces, but not here.” 

No one seemed to be paying him much attention.

The tension in Arthur’s shoulders eased ever so slightly now that they were all able to defend themselves. “I don’t know how to thank you, Wallace,” he said genuinely.

“You can start by telling me where Ambrosius is,” was the answer, and Wallace suddenly seemed more agitated than usual. “I’ve been trying to reach him on the comms all morning.” 

The tension was back. If Wallace needed Merlin, it usually meant someone was dead. “He’s not here. Why, what’s happened?”

Gwen appeared at Arthur’s side, giving Wallace her full attention. Near the stove, Gaius had stopped stirring. Even his men glanced up from their new weapons to listen.

Wallace tapped his fingers on the counter and sighed. “There’s another crime scene. It must have happened at least three days ago. None of the neighbours noticed until the smell started up.”

Gwen’s face twisted in repulsion. Arthur tended to agree. Wallace was giving too much detail, but none that helped Arthur. “Mordred?” he asked.

“Dunno. That’s why I need my medical examiner to _examine_ the bodies.”

“Bod _ies_?” Gwen repeated. 

That couldn’t be right. Mordred had never left two victims at once. Arthur feared Mordred was becoming desperate in his search for Morgana. 

“Yeah,” Wallace confirmed. “One of them fits Mordred’s pattern. The other one looks like she died of a stab wound, but that could just be Mordred trying to throw us off. I won’t know until Merlin determines a cause of death.” 

Arthur cursed under his breath just as the door opened again. Merlin, soaked through and dripping, and Lancelot entered. Upon seeing everyone congregated in the kitchen, Merlin blinked at them as though they were the odd ones. 

“What the hell happened to _you_?” Arthur demanded, wondering just what sort of supplies Merlin needed to collect for this ritual. 

“Burst pipe in the basement,” Merlin said quickly. He nodded to Wallace. “What’s he doing here?”

“ _He’s_ here to tell you to do your damn job,” Wallace retorted. 

Arthur dropped his shoulders and explained solemnly, “There’s been another murder. There are two victims this time.” 

Merlin froze. He seemed thoughtful as he stared off, and then finally exhaled. “Have the lab put them on ice until I can get there,” he apparently decided.

As he knelt in front of the coffee table and began sifting through his backpack, Wallace yelled, “On ice? What, you busy or somethin’? What’s more important than finding out how they died?”

“I _am_ trying to find that out. Only, this way, we can stop Mordred from killing anyone else.” He produced a paper bag from his pack and emptied the contents on the table. Four small, clear plastic baggies, all of them containing earthy substances of subdued greens and browns, fell out.

Wallace jumped back. “Whoa! What the fuck are those?” 

Merlin pointed to them in turn and listed them off. “Peyote, magic mushrooms, marijuana, jimsonweed, and—oh!” He reached into his bag and slammed a pack of cigarettes down. “Tobacco.” 

Arthur was gaping. He looked to Gwen, to Gaius, and finally to Lancelot. He’d _gone_ with Merlin! How could he have allowed him to purchase such things? Arthur had no idea how Merlin even knew where to get them!

Lancelot only shrugged meekly.

Arthur stammered, not knowing what to say. There was no way he ingesting any of those things—especially all at once!

“Yeah, I can see _that_ ,” Wallace said, sounding just as thrown as Arthur felt. “Wanna tell me where you got those? Or how long this has been going on?” His eyes swept to Arthur. “How long has this been going on?” 

Arthur only continued to stammer. 

“You know I’m a _cop_ , right?”

“So, arrest me!” Merlin was crumbling up the contents of the bags. He broke the cigarettes in half and poured the grained tobacco into a mound on the table. “Gaius, find a wooden bowl and get these things out of the pantry. Ready? Sage, sweetgrass, yarrow, juniper, lavender oil, and mugwort. How’s the potion coming along?”

Gaius’ expression was aghast. 

“No, you know what? I don’t care!” Wallace exclaimed, throwing his hands up. 

“Oh, what’s the matter, Wallace? I thought you _liked_ living outside the law?” Merlin raised a brow in humour and glanced up at him as he put the crushed up contents onto rolling paper. 

“Not when it could _kill you_!”

Merlin cocked his head to the side, silently expressing how stupid Wallace sounded.

“You know what I mean!” Wallace defended. Then, he went back to his assertion of, “Whatever. I don’t know what all this is about, and I don’t care! I was never here, got it? I’m leaving!”

“Bye.” Merlin started rolling the paper. Wallace didn’t move a muscle. “Gaius, where are those herbs?” 

“Merlin,” Gaius said severely, “are you certain you know what you’re doing?”

Merlin merely shrugged and pulled a face that wasn’t nearly as confident as Arthur would have liked. “ _Yeah_?” he said, stretching the word out to more syllables than were strictly necessary, his voice cracking as though it were a guess.

Arthur forced himself to recover. He couldn’t let this go any further. He threw his hands up in frustration. “ _That_ sounded reassuring. Merlin, Hunith was a wonderful woman, which is why I forgive her for _repeatedly_ dropping you on the head as an infant. But, in case you’ve forgotten, you won’t be the only one taking those drugs!” 

“Then, don’t come on the vision quest with me,” Merlin challenged.

Arthur was never one to back down from a challenge. 

If Merlin insisted on doing something so brazenly idiotic, Arthur would have to insist on doing it with him. _Someone_ had to protect him. Making up his mind, he turned to Gaius and said with a dismissive wave, “Get him whatever he needs.” 

Gaius appeared hesitant, but did not disobey.

“Arthur!” Gwen shouted, sounding both reprimanding and shocked.

He did not wish to argue with her. “You’re the one who said you trusted he knew what he was doing.” 

She paused, thinking it over. “I _do_ ,” she maintained, though weakly.

“It’s decided, then. Merlin, hurry up.”

Merlin was rolling a second paper, and Arthur tried to keep his stomach from churning. He focused on the quick movements of Merlin’s fingers instead. It only caused him more grief, because Merlin’s hands were sure, expert even. “You’re rather good at that, Merlin,” Arthur observed, not meaning it as a compliment. 

But, apparently, he meant it as a joke, because Gwaine let out a bellowing laugh. “Learned from the best,” he said, kneeling next to Merlin and throwing his arm around his shoulder. 

Merlin chortled and playfully knocked Gwaine with his shoulder. “Who, Percival?”

Arthur’s mouth was hanging open again. Gwaine, he expected it from, but _Percival_? Percival, who was grinning mischievously. 

“Is that where all my herbs used to go?” Gaius scolded.

“Quiet, before we get in trouble!” Elyan joked.

“ _Elyan_!” Gwen yelled much in the same way she had called Arthur’s name before.

“I’m so glad Camelot’s citizens relied on all of you for protection,” Arthur droned. However, now that Camelot was no more, it seemed fruitless to get angry. In truth, he was tired from all the revelations the day had brought. 

“Sire, I assure you, I never took part in such things,” Leon leaned in and assured him. Arthur was grateful. At least he could rely on one of them. 

“Yes, if I recall correctly,” Lancelot piped up, “you preferred wine as your substance of choice.” 

Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival broke out into loud guffaws of, “ _Ohhhhh_!” Leon blushed pink. Lancelot looked rather proud of himself. Wallace dissolved into laughter, like he was truly amused by the antics and gave up on hiding it. 

Arthur tried very hard not to laugh, too, but his lips twisted and a snort escaped him. “Enough!” he commanded, and kicked himself for the hint of humour that got into his voice. “It’s time we get this over with.”

Merlin stood up from the floor and brought both joints to Arthur. He offered one, and Arthur paused briefly to collect his courage before snatching it from Merlin’s fingers. “Here goes nothing,” he said. 

He placed it between his lips and inhaled when Merlin’s eyes glowed and the tip began to smoulder. The smoke that filled Arthur’s lungs was bitter but sweet, and it scratched on its way down. Arthur coughed it back up. 

“Finish it,” Merlin said before Arthur could protest.

“You seem to have the hang of it,” Arthur chided.

Merlin puffed out some smoke into his face and said, “I went to Woodstock.” Arthur blinked to stop the smoke from stinging his eyes. He was already starting to feel lightheaded. He wanted to believe that was because the drugs were so potent, not because he was a lightweight.

Once Gaius was finished putting the herbs into a bowl, the three of them went to the middle of the room. Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor, and Arthur mirrored his position. The others had crowded around the sofa and looked on as though they had gone to watch a play at the theatre.

Gaius handed Merlin and Arthur each a vial filled with the potion and said, “Its effects will be immediate and should last the rest of the day.” Arthur wanted to hold his nose while drinking it down, but refrained. He regretted it, because the centuries hadn’t done much for the foul tastes of Gaius’ concoctions. In front of him, Merlin shook his head and stuck out his flat tongue as though trying to air it out. 

“Okay,” Merlin began when he recovered, and smashed the butt of his joint onto the floor. Arthur was nearly done with his, as well. He was a bit proud of himself for getting the hang of it so quickly. He wasn’t coughing anymore, nor did the taste of the smoke bother him as much. Of course, he couldn’t quite taste much of anything, and he couldn’t feel his face. His head was swimming.

What were they supposed to be doing again? Looking for Mordred? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem to matter much, anyway. How big of a threat could Mordred be, after all? He’d already killed Arthur once. There wasn’t possibly a way he could out-do himself.

Merlin handed Gaius his journal opened to the correct page. “Repeat this chant until we’re unconscious,” Arthur heard Merlin instruct. Or maybe he hadn’t heard it. Merlin’s voice echoed, and it felt as though Arthur had thought the words instead of hearing them. He didn’t know what the chant meant, but he inexplicably knew why the medicine man of the Crow tribe used it before a vision quest. 

How did he know that? That should have been something Merlin knew, not him.

Merlin held his palm over the bowl, and the herbs inside started to smoke and furl into ambers. Gaius wafted the smoke towards Arthur’s face as he began the chant. It tickled a little, and Arthur rumbled with a low chuckle.

Suddenly, the touch of the smoke felt like Merlin. Arthur could feel him on his skin. He reached out, wanting to touch Merlin, too. His fingers caught air. He blinked, trying to focus on finding the place where Merlin sat. He couldn’t. His eyelids fell heavily, but everything else was light. He was strangely detached from his body, like he was floating on the waves of a lake. Harsh light, effervescent colour, and blaring sound blended into a kaleidoscope.

Why had he been so opposed to this plan before? It was a great idea! 

“Merlin,” Arthur grunted, but he wasn’t sure if he’d said it aloud. Everything else around him seemed to fade to the background. Merlin’s was the only presence Arthur could sense. It overwhelmed him. He could smell the scent of Merlin’s hair, taste Merlin on his tongue, hear Merlin’s breathing as clearly as if it were his own.

How much time had they wasted in Camelot? A full decade. It was a shame. All that time. Why had Arthur denied his feelings for so long? Merlin had always been closer to Arthur than his skin, only now Arthur could feel it. 

Arthur let his eyes slip closed. 

When he opened them again, the world had returned back to normal. He was back inside his body, and the afternoon sunlight coming through the stain glass windows painted rainbows onto the flagstone floor. Arthur groaned groggily and sank further into his pillows, wishing to return back to sleep. The deep red bedclothes rustled as he moved, and tugged on the hanging canopy. The scent of burning firewood from the previous night still lingered in the air. 

Adrenaline rushed into Arthur’s mind. He sprang up in bed and took in the room around him.

_His_ room. Everything was exactly the way he had left it: the wooden armchair by the fire with the fur cushion, the shields hanging above the mantle, the metal bowl on the table filled with his favourite fruits, and even the desk with quills and parchment a mile long scattered about. Merlin was at the desk, too. He was asleep, his head resting on his folded arms, just as he always was when Arthur frequently caught him dozing off while he should have been writing a speech.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled ecstatically. He ripped off the covers and bound out of bed, pausing briefly to notice he was wearing his chainmail. “Merlin, wake up!” 

Merlin took in a sharp breath. His shoulders tensed. Momentarily, he jerked up into a sitting position and scanned the room wildly.

“Get that stupid look off your face, Merlin, you’ll catch flies,” Arthur teased, his heart light. Merlin didn’t listen. He kept the stupid look on his face and stood up slowly.

He was wearing his old clothes, right down to the muddy boots. He was thinner and lankier than he had been recently, and years had been taken off his face. Even that ridiculous beard was gone. Arthur chuckled jovially and flicked the red scarf around Merlin’s neck. 

“These are your chambers,” Merlin said softly, as though he’d just remembered.

“I _know_! We’re back! We’re in Camelot!”

Arthur’s heart was bursting so much that his chest ached. His skin was buzzing with exhilaration and he thought his cheeks might crack if he kept beaming so widely, but he didn’t care. He wanted to believe so badly that the last two and a half years had been some elaborate nightmare, and he was finally awake. He was home—for good. And he was staying. It was where he belonged. 

Vaguely, he was aware of a cocktail of emotions brewing inside of him beneath the elation. Confusion, relief, nostalgia. Anger. Sadness. So much sadness. It was incessant. It should not have belonged to him, but he couldn’t shake it. It was a twinge in the back of his mind.

When he looked back at Merlin, he saw the same emotion written on his features.

“No, we aren’t,” Merlin told him, trying to talk sense. “It’s the trance state, remember? This must be from your mind. It has to be.” He looked around again, clocking every detail. “I didn’t remember it this well.” 

The happiness Arthur felt suddenly plunged into his gut, making way for the darker emotions that should have been left on the peripherals of his heart. He fought it, trying to convince himself that it didn’t matter. He was home. He was content. It was real; it had to be. 

“I don’t care,” Arthur lied, and Merlin didn’t buy it for a moment. “We’re back, Merlin! Look!” Trying to prove it, he rushed towards the window. “Look! It’s the courtyard, just the same as it’s always—.”

He got his first good look outside the window. Below, the bright stones of the courtyard were neatly lined with rows of white sheets. Human sized bumps, both child and fully grown, were beneath them. There were hundreds of them.

Arthur blinked, and suddenly he and Merlin were standing amongst the dead. He swallowed and tried to breathe, but something was blocking his throat. At once, his city no longer felt like the shining haven it had once been.

“What is this?” he demanded, turning to Merlin.

Merlin shook his head. He didn’t have an answer.

Arthur looked away from him, back at the bodies. They continued on outside the courtyard, leading to the drawbridge. Arthur followed their path to the training pitch outside the castle. He heard nothing rising up from over the wall that overlooked the lower town. The sky over the wall looked like an empty void. 

Arthur made for it. Below, where the lower town should have been, was rubble and ash. 

It was suddenly very hard to control his breathing. He gasped for oxygen. His eyes stung.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouted from somewhere nearby. Arthur spun around to find Merlin standing further down the pitch. He seemed to be starring at the ground beneath him. Arthur jogged over and, when he got closer, realised a giant hole had been dug into the ground. 

He smelt them before he saw them. That smell. It was hard to forget it.

He shielded his nose with his sleeve, and didn’t want to go any further. But he did. He had to see it with his own eyes. 

A mass grave was dug into the earth. Arthur couldn’t count how many bodies were thrown inside. Limbs were jutting out in awkward positions, and necks were positioned in impossible angles. Soil haphazardly covered some of the corpses, but just barely. Dead eyes looked to Arthur like they blamed him for not being able to save them. Their flesh was greying with rot, and insects made meals out of them. Arthur closed his eyes, trying to block out the buzzing sound. He couldn’t. 

“Is this what happened?” Arthur whispered, though he knew he didn’t want the answer. “When the Saxons . . . Is this what they did?” 

Merlin pressed his lips together and continued to stare down. “I don’t know.”

Arthur’s blood boiled hot. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You didn’t stick around long enough to find out?”

He felt Merlin wince. He felt Merlin’s heart sink.

All that sadness.

Arthur regretted his tone. He turned away. He couldn’t stand the sight anymore.

“Arthur, look at their clothes.”

He didn’t want to look back. He felt sick just thinking about it. Still, he steeled himself and returned to Merlin’s side. At second glance, he realised none of the people in the mass grave were citizens of Camelot. He didn’t recognise a single face, and none of their clothes even remotely resembled the rags of the peasants or the gowns of the noblewomen. They were in jeans and t-shirts, short dresses and jackets—contemporary clothing. 

“It’s a warning,” Merlin said, and Arthur knew it, too. “It’s what will happen if we don’t stop Mordred.”

“Stop him from what?” Arthur said, gritting his teeth. It was all well and good to know how bleak the future would become, but they still didn’t know what Mordred was planning or how he was pulling it off. Hadn’t finding that out been the whole point of this exercise? “What the hell sort of useless magic trick is this, Merlin?”

Before Merlin could answer, a shadow streaked across the ground. Reflexively, Arthur went on high alert. He reached for the sword at his side, but it wasn’t _his_ sword. At least, not the one he’d pulled from the stone. It was the one he once had when he was prince. Arthur remembered it with fondness, but it was nowhere near as perfect as the one Merlin had forged for him.

The shadow swooped back into view. A beast blocked out the sun. It hovered in the air, flapping its white wings. Then, it lowered itself to the earth before them. Arthur recognised the creature. It was a hideous thing, stunted and broken. 

“Put the sword away,” Merlin said. He forcibly lowered Arthur’s arm and placed himself like a barrier between Arthur and the creature. “You don’t have to be afraid. You can trust her.”

“ _Trust_? That’s _Morgana’s_ dragon!”

Merlin faced the dragon. “No. Camelot is your memory. She’s mine. She’s my spirit guide.”

As Merlin approached the dragon with cautious movements, wanting to ensure her that he meant her no harm, his sorrow grew deeper into despair. There was some memory scratching at the surface of Arthur’s mind, but he couldn’t access it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. There was something too painful about it, like a broken bone that never healed right and ached whenever it rained. All of Merlin’s movements were an apology.

“Aithusa,” Merlin said, hold his hand out for her. “It’s me. What is it? What have you come to tell us?”

Aithusa didn’t approach Merlin. Instead, she flapped her wings again and lifted off the grass. Arthur squinted as he followed her with his gaze. She hovered again briefly before flying in the direction of the keep.

“She wants to show us something,” Merlin said, and Arthur reasoned it, too. They rushed back to the drawbridge, keeping in stride with Aithusa. She landed on top of the steps leading into the castle and began scratching on the door. When they caught up, Merlin opened the doors for her. Aithusa walked inside on all fours. They followed her through the entrance, up the stairs with the winged lion statue sitting nobly at the top, and through the corridors. She stopped outside the closed doors of one of the palace’s antechambers.

“In there?” Arthur said, pointing to room beyond. His nerves ignited as he wondered what danger rested on the other side of the doors. But then he thought back to the devastation of the lower town, to the bodies in the courtyard, and to the mass grave on the pitch. He found his courage.

Camelot lay in ruin. He couldn’t let Britain share the same fate.

He pushed through the door. The room inside was dark, lit only by the candle stands next to the stone pillars of the archways. Two banners hung from the ceiling. They were black with a blood red sigil that looked like the silhouette of a tree with thick roots sprouting beneath it.

Between the banners, framed by the rays of light pouring through the narrow windows, a silver chalice sat upon a pedestal. Arthur recognised it instantly. 

He remembered all the suffering it had caused. He’d been right to be afraid.

He paced towards it warily with Merlin right over his shoulder. When they reached it, Arthur looked inside. Fresh blood filled it halfway. 

Doing all he could to steady his hands, he reached for the Cup. 

“Arthur, no!” Merlin shouted, but it was too late. The tip of Arthur’s gloved finger connected with the Cup. Arthur was jolted backward like he’d been struck by lightning. A bright white light blinded him.

Suddenly, he was back inside the flat, sitting exactly where he had been before. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. In front of him, Merlin was blinking rapidly and rattling his head.

“They’re awake!” Arthur heard Gwen exclaim. He tried to focus his eyesight towards her. She was jumping up from the armchair, and everyone else was rousing themselves into attention. Wallace was still present. Gaius appeared from the kitchen. As Arthur’s eyes adjusted, he realised it was nighttime. It hadn’t even been midday when they started the ritual. 

So much time had passed. It didn’t seem that way in the vision. Merlin was now totally dry, and his mop of hair was an unruly forest of curls. 

Arthur’s first instinct was to skew his eyes shut and try to get back into the dream. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t enough time in Camelot! He didn’t get to take it all in! He didn’t get to say goodbye! He needed to go back, if only for a moment, before he could never see it again!

But, behind his eyes, he saw only swirling darkness. 

“Merlin, what happened? Did it work? What did you see?” Gaius demanded.

“It’s the Cup of Life,” Merlin told him.

Arthur opened his eyes as he remembered everything that happened after he touched the Cup. In that flash of light, he knew that Mordred used it for his resurrections. And he knew what it would be used for next.

What he didn’t know was how to prevent it. It was too big, and he was no longer king. He was no one. 

“Wait, like, the Holy Grail? That thing really exists?” Wallace asked, gobsmacked. 

“It did once. It was lost thousands of years ago,” Merlin said, struggling to his feet. 

“Are you certain it’s the Cup, Merlin?” asked Gaius. “The Cup of Life can only save someone on the brink of death. A person must drink from the chalice if they are to be saved.” 

“No, no,” Merlin began to argue even before Gaius had finished his sentence, “he’s found a way to reverse its effects by taking a life to bring someone back. I _saw_ it! We both did!” 

Arthur realised Merlin was talking about him, but Arthur felt very far away. He heard Gwen say his name again. She sounded concerned. 

For some reason, it was enough to muster Arthur into action. There was no time to lose. He jumped to his feet and began, “Mordred means to build another immortal army out of the Neo-Druids. He wants Morgana to command them. It’s why he’s found the Cup, and why he’s resurrected you all. He was looking for her.” 

“We said Mordred couldn’t control who he brought back, but we _thought_ the relic was resurrecting everyone he knew from Camelot,” Merlin continued Arthur’s train of thought. “But Mordred had nothing to do with it. It was the Cup. It was bringing back everyone who was there the last time it was used. That’s why you’re all young again. It returned you to the same way you were then.”

“The stab wound in my back,” Lancelot realised, his eyes lighting up. “I got one just like it while fighting Morgana’s army in Camelot.”

Next to him, Elyan remembered something, too. “I dislocated my shoulder that day. For weeks, it bothered me while Mordred held us prisoner.”

Gwen let out a breath, understanding the enormity of the task before them. “Arthur, Morgana’s immortal army was nearly impossible to destroy the first time. The Neo-Druids are magic users. They control the whole of Britain. That kind of power makes them—.”

“Unstoppable,” Arthur and Merlin said at the same time. Arthur knitted his brows together at that, but decided he had more important things to worry about than when Gaius’ potion would wear off. 

“What became of the Cup after Camelot fell? Did the Saxons take it?” Arthur posed to the room in general.

It was Gwen who answered. “I do not know what became of it. It was not in the city when it fell.”

“What?” Of course, it had been. It must have been! After Morgana’s army was beaten, Uther locked the Cup away in the deepest, most secure chamber of Camelot’s vaults. There was no way anyone could steal it. 

“The Cup was given to the Druids shortly after your death, sire,” explained Gaius.

Arthur was livid. “The _Druids_? Who was the _idiot_ who did that?”

_Oh._

All eyes fell on Merlin, who winced in a pathetic attempt to look innocent. Arthur opened his mouth to shout. 

“I allowed him do it, Arthur!” Gwen defended, springing forward, as though it could placate him. It didn’t.

“ _Why_? You know how dangerous that thing is in wrong hands, Guinevere! You _both_ did! How could either of you do something like this?” 

“Does it matter? Obviously, the Druids never used it!” Merlin argued. 

“And why give them that chance? The safest place for it was in Camelot’s vaults!” 

“Not with me!”

It tripped Arthur up for half a moment, enough time to cause his rage to dwindle no matter how he fought to keep it. “What the hell are you—?”

“You were dead!” Merlin shouted. “So, _yes_ , I trusted the Druids with it more than I trusted myself.”

Arthur couldn’t be angry anymore. He tried. He really did. He stared at Merlin long and hard, but Merlin only returned the stare. Arthur remembered his sadness. It was hard to be angry when he, too, had known Merlin’s sorrow first hand. The worst part of it wasn’t its constant presence; it was the dull ache of loneliness that went with it. It was barely even felt anymore. Merlin had gotten too used to living with it. 

It all began the day Arthur died.

“Sire,” Gaius said after a pause. 

“ _What_?” both Merlin and Arthur bit out in unison. 

Gaius looked taken aback, and Arthur regretted his outburst. He steadied himself.

“I’m sorry, Gaius. What is it?”

“It’s just that, the Cup of Life is the most powerful object the Old Religion has produced,” said Gaius. “The way Mordred is using it would require extraordinarily powerful magic, even for the Cup. If it has been used anywhere in the city, Merlin _should_ have been able to sense its power.” 

Arthur snapped his attention back to Merlin. “Did you?” he demanded. Surely, Merlin wouldn’t hold something like that from him.

Merlin averted his eyes and shook his head meekly.

“You must have, Merlin,” Gaius coaxed. “Perhaps you were not focusing hard enough?”

“Yeah, I can take you to the new crime scene,” Wallace piped up from the back, trying to help. “You can see if you feel any mumbo jumbo.”

The crime scene. Arthur suddenly remembered what Wallace had said. There had been _two_ victims, and the Cup was bringing back people who had been alive the last time it had been used. Morgana wasn’t the only soul left to resurrect. There was another.

“No, it won’t work,” Merlin told him. 

“It _has_ to!” Arthur asserted. “If you can sense it, it will bring us to Mordred. We _have_ to find him, Merlin! He has my father.”

The area around the sofa erupted in a swell of questions, from Gwaine’s “how to do you know?” to Leon’s “sire?” to Lancelot’s “did you see him during the vision quest?” 

Gwen’s voice rose above them all. “Your father?” She touched a delicate hand to his arm. “Arthur, how can you be certain?” 

“Wallace said there were two victims during the last murder.” 

“Hey, whoa, I also said one of them was stabbed,” Wallace quickly defended.

“You _also_ said that could have been Mordred trying to trick us!” Arthur whipped back around to face Merlin. “We must find him, Merlin. I will not let him suffer at Mordred’s hand.”

But it was more than that. Uther would know what to do. He would know how to beat Morgana’s magical army before she got the chance to make them immortal. He’d know how to save Britain from the fate Arthur saw during his vision quest. Uther had been battling magic all of Arthur’s life. He could fix this. Uther would save them all!

“Merlin,” Gaius said, crowding in closer to Merlin, “you must focus, my boy. You can do this.”

“No, I really can’t!” Merlin stressed. “I can’t sense it! It’s not because I wasn’t focusing. I don’t—.” He dropped his shoulders and confessed, “I don’t have that power anymore. I gave it to someone else.” 

Arthur blinked, and looked at Gaius to confirm if that was possible. However, Gaius, too, seemed thrown.

“What, did you lose it in a game of poker? Does it work like that?” Wallace said, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“What? No,” Merlin said with a dismissive wave in Wallace’s direction. He sighed, looking like he was lifting a weight off his chest. He looked to Wallace, because apparently it was easier to fully confess to him. “It was in the early nineties, at Maudsley Hospital." 

Wallace jerked his head back in question. “The mental institution? I didn’t know you were a doctor there.”

“I wasn’t.” 

Wallace’s eyes flashed with realisation. Arthur barely noticed. The room had shrunk. He had no idea Merlin had ever been through such a thing. He remembered the patients with mental afflictions that Gaius had treated in Camelot. He didn’t know much about the procedure, but he knew it involved the drilling of a hole into the patient’s skull to drain some bodily fluid. Many of the patients died. Arthur had never noticed a hole in Merlin’s head, apart from the metaphorical one.

Merlin wasn’t hindered by Wallace’s silence. He continued on, “Do you remember all those natural disasters around that time?”

Wallace nodded.

“That was due to magic. The Old Religion was returning too quickly for the earth to handle. It wasn’t used to that much power after so long. That was partly my fault. It would have returned with or without my help, but I quickened the process. I had learned to let the Old Religion use me as a catalyst to spread out to the rest of the world. I was in the centre of it all. I felt . . . _all_ of it.”

Still through the potion’s effects, Arthur knew what that was like. It wasn’t a memory, more like a feeling. It was fuzzy around the edges, and felt like a word lost on the tip of his tongue. But he knew. It was no wonder it drove Merlin mad. 

“I checked myself into hospital in hopes I could get away from it, but I couldn’t. It was too much. It was like—,” he licked his lips in thought. “Have you ever put a knife in a blender? It was like that inside of me. I had to get rid of it.” Merlin’s voice was thick now, guilty.

Wallace took a few steps closer and held out his hand. “No need to explain, Merlin. I get it, all right?”

Merlin shook his head. “No. You don’t. There’s only one other person who does. He was my doctor—Simon. I tried to give him my magic. All of it. But his body couldn’t handle it. It came back to me, but some of it stayed inside of him. He got the part that can sense magic. I left the hospital after that. It was over. I didn’t feel the Old Religion anymore. I still can’t.” 

Merlin’s eyes connected with Arthur’s. He looked so apologetic, and Arthur didn’t know what to do with that. “I can’t find the Cup.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Gwaine asked, “this Simon person has magic now because of you?” 

“It’s still my magic. He’s just—holding it for me.” Merlin shuffled a little. “I don’t even know if he can control it.”

Gwen left Arthur’s side to be a comforting presence at Merlin’s. “We understand,” she said. “But, if there’s any way he can help us, I believe it’s worth speaking with him.” 

Arthur felt the night rattling against the windows. He didn’t want it to pass into another wasted day. It gave Mordred and Morgause more time to scheme. It was more time they held Uther captive. The world was slowly spinning towards its own destruction. 

“I don’t want to pull him into this,” Merlin told Gwen.

“You already have,” Arthur snipped, pushing past the agony radiating off of Merlin. He couldn’t worry about that now. Luckily, it was easy to push to the side. It was fading away from him. “We’re to pay him a visit, Merlin. That’s final. Where is he?” 

“I didn’t keep track of him,” Merlin said quietly. “But, the last time I checked, he was still at the hospital.”

“As a doctor?” asked Wallace.

Merlin shook his head. “No.”

_Oh._  

Arthur took a breath to let the information settle, and then he decided it didn’t matter. Whatever Merlin had done in the past, Arthur didn’t care, so long as it didn’t interfere with the future.

“Then, there’s no time to waste. We’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Arthur told everyone. “First thing in the morning, we figure out the best way to get us into this Maudsley Hospital undetected. We don’t want Mordred finding out about Simon. And, Wallace, if we mean to stop the Neos before Morgana can make them immortal, we’ll need all the help we can get. I think it’s time I spoke with your uncle. Get me a meeting with him.” 

If it would come to a fight, Arthur would need allies. And Uther would need an army.

Wallace opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur already knew what it was. He held up his hand to silence him. “In the meantime, Merlin will conduct your autopsy.” 

Wallace settled, and Arthur took that to mean he agreed. 

“The rest of you, get some sleep. It’s late.”

As the others stood up to leave, Arthur remained where he was. He was too tired to move, too exhausted to think. Gwen lingered for a moment to give him a soft, supportive smile. She brushed Merlin’s shoulder before following the group out. They all cast Merlin gentle glances as they left. Arthur almost scolded them for their unneeded pity.

“Merlin,” Gaius said softly, making it sound like a question. He reached out to touch Merlin, but Merlin jerked away.

“I’m fine,” he claimed, but he didn’t sound fine. Steadying himself, he said in a softer voice, “I’m alright, Gaius.” 

Gaius pressed his lips together and surveyed Merlin, not seeming to believe him. But he nodded nonetheless and took his leave.

Merlin and Arthur were alone. Neither man had any idea what to say to the other. 

Eventually, Merlin whispered, “I’m sorry. I never meant for Simon to . . .”

As he trailed off, Arthur heard his unspoken words. He didn’t wish to add to Merlin’s guilt.

“I know, Merlin,” Arthur said. He moved closer to Merlin and slapped a hand to his shoulder. It was the only way Arthur knew how to convey that he didn’t blame Merlin. Merlin didn’t have to explain himself. 

After all, he’d done it for Arthur, just like everything else. Arthur had turned Merlin into what he was. He didn’t want to. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t even known. But he had nonetheless.

If Merlin didn’t want to forgive himself, Arthur would. He hoped it would be enough.

 

///

 

That night, Merlin helped Gaius dress the knight’s fading wounds as everyone turned in for sleep, just to get his mind off everything. As long as the day had been, tomorrow would be even longer. At least, it would be for Merlin. He’d tried so hard to put what he’d done to Simon in the past. He’d tried to forget his entire stay at the hospital. Looking back on it, the memories didn’t feel real. It was like they’d happened to someone else, or to a character in a book. Not to him.

Would it feel real tomorrow, when Merlin looked Simon in the eyes?

He pushed back into the flat he shared with Arthur, not expecting to find Arthur tooling around the kitchen. Arthur was usually in bed by that hour. He hadn’t stayed up so late since his days as king.

He blinked when Arthur noticed his presence. There was a steaming mug in Arthur’s hand, and he was dressed for bed, bare feet beneath soft grey joggers. He wore a soft smirk, his eyes trailing Merlin up at down, as Merlin padded in closer. 

“Still awake?” Merlin said. He clocked the mug in Arthur’s hands, and gaped slightly. “And you made your own tea?” 

Arthur’s brow creased as he rolled his eyes in a way that said _obviously_. “I think I can manage some tea,” he droned, but he was wrong. Every time he attempted to make tea, it tasted disgusting, though Arthur would never admit it. He leaned against the fridge. “I think the _real_ miracle is how observant you are this evening.” 

Merlin let the comment slide as he stood against the opposite counter and watched Arthur. There was pride written on his face, even though making tea was an accomplishment any other person did as a routine. But the fact that Arthur hadn’t bothered Merlin with the task meant something different. He didn’t see Merlin as his servant anymore. Arthur had become a part of the twenty-first century, fully integrated. Fully alive. It happened somewhere along the line, and Merlin hadn’t noticed until that moment. 

Maybe it was easier to see now that everyone else was back. Merlin had something to compare Arthur’s progress to.

“What?” Arthur demanded off Merlin’s look. 

Merlin shook his head, letting the warm feeling envelop him. He wanted to completely forget about tomorrow’s plight. “Nothing. It’s just—I could get used to this. Relaxing. I could stay in bed while you do all the work.”

“As if you ever did anything else,” Arthur retorted. “Your laziness made you’re the worst servant in the world, remember?”

There was no heat behind the words, but Merlin pulled a mock-offended expression anyway. “I never slept at all! While you were getting your beauty rest, I was off god-knows-where saving your sorry arse.” 

“Is _that_ why you were always late with breakfast? There wasn’t much use saving me if I died of starvation.”

“I should have let you starve. Then, you wouldn’t be so doughy around the sides.” Merlin reached across and pressed a finger into Arthur’s gut as though to emphasis his point.

“Oh, you—!” Arthur bit out, and hurriedly set his tea down behind him. He bared his teeth. “I’ll show _you_ how fit I am!”

He launched himself at Merlin and wrestled him against the counter. The edge pressed against Merlin’s spine as he leaned away. Merlin kicked and flailed in attempt to escape, but laughter took control of his limbs. “No, Arthur!” he shouted in variations a few times, but Arthur was relentless. Finally, he managed to get Merlin exactly where he wanted him.

Merlin stopped squirming. He’d fought long enough to keep up appearances, and now he could allow himself to give in to the solid press of Arthur’s body against him. Their breath mixed, heavy from excursion; though, Merlin’s hitched for another reason entirely.

If he just leaned in a little closer . . .

Arthur’s gaze had swept down to Merlin’s lips. “Ever since that vision quest,” he whispered, “I keep thinking I’m . . .” He halted, not knowing how to describe the sensation.

But Merlin understood. He’d been feeling it, too. “Missing something,” he supplied. But it was more that than—more than wondering if you’ve left the oven on, more than forgetting your wallet at home. It felt like someone scooped out his insides and left him hollow. “Empty." 

Arthur gave a barely-there nod. “Yes.”

Merlin swallowed hard and forced his gaze away. Momentarily, Arthur pushed off of him, but lingered close—just close enough to not touch. 

“It’s the side effects of the potion,” Merlin explained. “Our minds were joined. Our—um, souls.” He thought Arthur would protest at the word, but he did not, so Merlin continued. “We filled in all the tiny spaces no one knows is there. Now the connection’s broken, and we’re aware of them. We just have to get used to it again.” Get used to the emptiness. He squared himself and nodded, trying to seem sure. “It’ll wear off.”

During the explanation, Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin and had not stopped. “Have you ever used that potion before?”

Merlin thought he knew where this was going. He sighed. “No.”

“Then, how could you know?” Arthur challenged. “What if it never wears off?”

Merlin scoffed. “I think they have a name for that. Love.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so heavy. Arthur was regarding him in the way he sometimes did during those late nights as king, like he couldn’t quite fathom Merlin out.

Merlin cleared his throat, trying to dismiss it. “Forget it. It’s nothing—just an old Greek myth.” 

To this, Arthur’s expression became more humoured. He gestured with his hand. “Tell me.”

There was no backpedalling now. Merlin thought back to the story that told the supposed origin of life’s meaning, the search for love. It was a very narrow view of life. There were plenty of people who never sought romance or a soul mate. But, his whole life, all Merlin had ever done was search for something. For Arthur.

He didn’t believe the story, but he liked the idea of it. For him, it fit.

“When humans were first created, they had two of everything—faces, pair of legs and arms.” But one heartbeat, if he remembered correctly. “And the gods began to fear us, so in order to prevent us from gaining too much power, they split us in half. It was to distract us from rising against them. They made sure people spent their whole lives searching for the one who completes them.”

Merlin blushed a little. It seemed silly now that he said it aloud.

“That’s why people have sex,” he said, and it only made it more awkward. “It’s our way of trying to put ourselves back together.”

Arthur’s eyes were searching him. The space between them hummed, and Merlin feared he’d never be put together again. He’d spend the rest of his life as a broken piece to someone else’s whole. 

“Well,” Arthur said, breaking his silence, “it’s certainly an interesting theory. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Merlin pulled his brows together. “For what?”

The space between them was gone. There was nothing but Arthur—Arthur’s taste, Arthur’s scent, Arthur’s warmth. It filled up all of Merlin’s empty spaces.

Arthur snaked his arms between Merlin’s back and the counter. He squeezed Merlin so close that he could feel Arthur’s heartbeat against his chest. It beat in rapid tandem with Merlin’s own.

Merlin dragged his hands up and down beneath the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. As Merlin explored them, the muscles of Arthur’s back slid and flexed under the skin. He reached down the band of Arthur’s joggers, along the curve of his bottom. He scratched his nails into the back of Arthur’s thighs. 

Arthur hissed with delight into Merlin’s mouth. His lips started trailing elsewhere—Merlin’s cheeks, his ears, along the sleek surface of his chin and around his jawbone.

Pressure bloomed low in Merlin’s stomach and started pulsing steadily. Against his thigh, he could feel Arthur stiffening more and more with each roll of his hips. 

Arthur tugged at Merlin’s shirt until he got the message and lifted the fabric over his head. Arthur did the same to his own, discarding it on the floor.

Everyone had turned in for sleep. Merlin would take the opportunity to have Arthur all to himself.

He pulled Arthur closer against him. It still wasn’t close enough. Arthur must have thought the same. He grinded against Merlin like his body was trying to find a way inside. It caused a sensation in Merlin’s belly that made his skin prickle all over.

Merlin’s magic crackled against the barrier of his skin. It wanted to touch, to explore the expanse of Arthur’s broad shoulders, to roam down the straights and curves of Arthur’s torso, to feel Arthur inside of him. Merlin couldn’t deny it of its desires.

Its tendrils broke free from him. They wrapped around the two bodies, nestling them into an invisible cocoon. It tickled at Merlin. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was doing to Arthur, who gave strangled moans into the crook of Merlin’s neck. The sounds completely undid Merlin.

He dipped down lower to worship Arthur’s chest, to suck on the prickling skin around his nipples and run his tongue down the grooves of his ribcage. His fingers danced along every piece of skin they could reach.

Arthur tore at Merlin’s belt, muttering something about Merlin taking too long. He pulled down Merlin’s jeans, taking his shorts along with it, and let them fall the rest of the way to pool around Merlin’s shoes. He pushed Merlin upright against the counter and dropped down to his knees. It was an unexpected rush that almost knocked the air out of Merlin, which happened in earnest when Arthur took him into his mouth. 

Merlin slammed his palms on the counter behind him, trying to keep his legs from buckling. It didn’t work so well because his hands were slick and caused him to slide more than he’d intended. But he managed to stay upright, at least enough to support himself with one hand. He brought the other to his mouth to stifle the sounds rumbling in his throat. He’d never been so aware of how much everything echoed in that drafty building.

His magic wasn’t the only thing thrashing through his veins. All feeling rushed downward, making him lightheaded. He looked down his chest to Arthur, to the mass of gold and pink bowed before him. His heart unspooled with joy. The emotion rocked him, and sent him into a wave of euphoria. 

He took his hand from his mouth. He didn’t care if the whole city heard him shouting—he just _had_ to clasp onto Arthur’s hair, to tug and tangle and get lost in. The overhead light illuminated it like a crown.

Arthur took a long pull. His teeth grazed Merlin; his tongue wrapped around him. Merlin’s body shook, and Arthur reached a hand up to steady him, gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. Merlin’s free hand flew to it and slid along Arthur’s arms, matting down the golden hairs. His hips started rolling, crashing against Arthur. 

Arthur’s throat rumbled with hums, sending up hot air and quick vibrations. Merlin craned his head back to the ceiling and gasped out, “Arthur, I’m gonna—I’m—.” 

The wet heat of Arthur’s mouth left him, but he felt Arthur’s fingertips grip possessively harder into his hipbone. Panting, his nose pressed against Merlin’s thigh, Arthur said, “So, do it.”

He wrapped his lips around Merlin again, and only need one shallow pull to make him fall apart. Arthur held Merlin’s hips steady, rubbing circles into the skin, and swallowed him down.

All the worry and stress Merlin had been carrying around inside of him dissipated from his muscles and left his bones. All the tension, all the fear Merlin harboured in the past days, evaporated. He prayed the feeling would remain. 

He stayed still after Arthur pulled away. He’d forgotten all basic motor functions, and allowed his body to instinctually gasp for breath. His skin tingled all over, and his blood raced through his eardrums.

Arthur got to his feet, and pressed his chest to Merlin’s. His body was still vibrating as he dragged his swollen lips across Merlin’s jaw and nibbled at the shell of his ear.

Merlin spotted the abandoned mug on the counter. The steam had stopped wafting from it. “I think your tea’s gone cold." 

“What?” Arthur asked, dazed, as he came up for air.

“Your tea,” Merlin chortled. He reached around for the mug. He took a sip and pulled a disgusted face at the lukewarm temperature, and at the taste in general. It _was_ horrible. “Yup. Cold.”

He handed it to Arthur, who hesitantly took a sip, too, to test it. He frowned. “Well, _you’ll_ just have to make me another,” he ordered. He stretched over Merlin to set the mug down again.

“That whole rest and relaxation thing was nice while it lasted,” Merlin deadpanned.

Arthur flashed him a stunning smile. “I’ll never give you a moment’s peace,” he promised.

Merlin found himself hopeful at the prospect, but he forced himself to huff. “And here I thought my luck was turning.”

“You just got lucky!” Arthur reminded him. “You’re about to _twice_! Get into bed before I bend you over this counter.”

Merlin reminded himself to breathe. The room was still spinning. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable in bed.”

“How thoughtful.”

Arthur apparently had enough of Merlin’s backtalk, but Merlin was open to the idea of using his mouth for other things. So, Merlin shut up when Arthur tugged at the strings of his joggers and let the fabric fall away. Merlin bit his lip, and hated himself for staring. Arthur always got so smug when Merlin stared. 

But he couldn’t help himself from drinking Arthur in. The sight of Arthur’s body never failed to make Merlin’s heart stutter. He was golden from head to toe, and looked every inch like a monument that belonged on a pedestal in the centre of every city in the world. And, if Merlin got his way, he’d make it so.

When Arthur grabbed his wrist and yanked him away from the kitchen, there wasn’t a single reason Merlin could think of not to follow.

 

///

 

Morgana sat in her bedroom, half-paying attention to her reflection before her as she slid a porcelain brush through her hair. She’d lost track of how much time had passed since she began, but the slow memorizing strokes soothed her. It made her think back to days long ago, full of airy halls and the bliss of innocence—all that had been taken from her, all she fought to regain.

A familiar sensation tugged at her heartstrings. Comfort. She did not have to worry where her next meal was coming from, she did not have to fear an attack by armoured men wishing to do her harm, she did not have to live in squalor or curse the cold darkness of captivity. Though the comforts around her now were hardly lavish, they were more than she’d been accustomed to in many years.

This new world of hers would prove itself to be a happy one—at least, it would when she was done with it.

Outside the window, some movement caught the corner of her eye. She jumped, thrown off her guard. Her breath trapped in her throat, she stood up from her cushioned stool and paced closer to the window. She saw nothing, no one, but it didn’t satisfy her. Her magic pulsed through her, whispering of some threat that lurked close by. 

Someone was watching her.

Determined to find the intruder, she left her bedroom and walked down the short, plain hall to the front room. A large window took up most of the wall nearest the entrance. A tall man walked by outside of it. The lamppost on the street silhouetted the sharp features of his profile.

Morgana gasped and flung herself back into the hall, pushing her spine against the wall in hopes of staying hidden. She skewed her eyes tight, trying to convince herself that her mind was playing tricks on her. But all she could see behind her eyelids was black hair and fair skin. 

_He’s not real_ , she told herself desperately. He was a phantom, nothing more. He could not have found her. She was safe.

The wooden steps leading to the porch outside her front door creaked.

Her pulse jumped, and every instinct told her to run.

“No,” she bit out, fighting her weakness. She could not allow it to control her. She would not allow _him_ to ruin her plans again.

Fury rose in her, a strong substitute for courage. She called all of her magic forth, letting it swell in her heart and spark on her fingers. She made for the door and ripped it open with a word. She burst through the threshold and wrapped an invisible fist around the man’s neck. 

He’d been leaning of the rail of the porch steps. He let out gagging sounds and his hands held his throat. The cigarette between his fingers fell to the ground and exploded upon impact.

Morgana got a good look at him, and realised he was not who she’d anticipated. It was the handsome man she’d seen on the night of her return. Quickly, she released him, but kept her magic close at hand in case he tried to harm her. 

He lurched to his knees, choking and gasping.

“What do you want?” she demanded. 

“I’m—I’m sorry, my Queen,” the man coughed, trying to regain composure. His voice was thick and his eyes red, but he struggled to his feet and gave a weak bow of his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was sent here to look after you.” 

“Look after me?” Morgana echoed, shaking her head. “Who sent you?” 

“Sir Mordred. He wanted to make sure you were safe while he was away,” the man answered quickly.

“I don’t need protection,” she snipped in return. 

Again, the man bowed his head. “Of course! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ll leave.”

Without looking her in the eye or waiting for her approval, he turned to go. “Wait,” she called, stopping him. He turned around expectantly. The yellow glow from the street haloed him. He looked like a shadow, a messenger of the night.

“What is your name?” Morgana demanded. 

“Malcolm, my Queen.”

“Malcolm,” she repeated, getting a taste for the name. It felt smooth in her mouth, like she could devour it with sinking teeth. Her lips curving, she stepped back into the doorway and held it open. “Come in, Malcolm.”

He hesitated momentarily, but not out of fear or uncertainty. He seemed to be weighing his options, but decided to obey. He walked back up the steps and into her home. She pressed against the moulding in the door to let him enter, and followed him in. She closed out the night behind them, though much of it had already gotten inside. 

Malcolm stood in the front room, his hands folded behind his back and his posture as straight as any good soldier. She dragged her eyes up and down his lean frame, his long legs.

“You must be a very skilled soldier if Mordred chose you as my personal guard in his absence,” she said, walking a slow circle around him.

He kept his eyes forward and nodded. “I know my way around any weapon, my Queen. And I’ve studied magic since I was a kid. I’ve mastered ten forms of magical arts.”

She raised a thin brow. “Impressive.”

“My parents didn’t think so. They sent me to the camps when I was twenty-three,” he said without a hint of sorrow or remorse. “I’ve been with the Neo-Druids since they liberated me.” 

She came to a stop in front of him, watching the way the light cut an abyss into the curves of his face. “Then, I would think your loyalties lie with Cyrus,” she said suspiciously. 

Malcolm looked humoured. “Cyrus gives us nothing but empty promises. He’s not strong enough to lead us into a better world, but you—,” finally, his eyes met hers. “You have a power I’ll follow.”

She liked his answer, and the way his mouth curved into a plump pucker. She took a step closer to him, leaving only a slight gap between them. His gaze followed her, and there was a darkness behind it that reminded her of another’s—dull, such a difference from the sharpness of the blade she felt twisting in her gut. That darkness had been the last thing she saw before her death; and she craved to bring it out, to no longer fear it but instead to tear it apart with bloody hands and build it back up into a new animal that worshiped her every will. 

“I’m sure you can teach me a lot,” Malcolm told her.

“I’m sure I can,” she answered. She reached up and scratched her nail against the line of his jaw, which tensed under her touch. The way he leaned into it, eager and wanting, caused satisfaction to ebb through her.

“Mordred may approve of you, but I will need to judge for myself whether you’re fit to be my personal guard,” she cautioned, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck and stroking the short black hairs. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Do whatever you need to, my Queen,” he rasped out. 

She pulled him into her, taking him into a ruinous kiss. He pushed back, and wrapped her in close to his body. He wasn’t the least bit shy, but he took his every cue from her. She knew at once she could do whatever she pleased with him. 

Not breaking away, she pushed his back against the wall. Her lips strayed away from his, and her fingers explored the dips and curves of his arms beneath his sleeves. She gripped at the fabric; it was too coarse for her liking. As though she’d willed him to do so, he pulled off the garment and tossed it to the floor, revealing freckled skin and matted dark hairs. Morgana slid her palm up his chest, appreciating the prickling skin she left in her wake. 

Malcolm’s breath tripped out of him, and he stared at her with barely contained hunger. It was such a pitiful thing, and she chose to keep him at her mercy. She folded her palms around his neck and leapt into his arms, her legs wrapping around his hips. The friction between them made her gasp as small explosions reverberated through her body. 

He spun them around so that her back was against the wall, and groped where he was holding her beneath her dress. His body rocking against hers, he nuzzled his face into her neck and nibbled at the skin. His teeth left red marks in patterns as he moved lower, along her bone and into the dipping collar of her dress. 

Quaking with pleasure, she struggled to keep hold of him. She tugged hard at his hair, and when that wasn’t enough to hold on to, her nails dug into his shoulder blades, deep enough to elicit pain—but he moaned.

She angled her chin up to the ceiling, letting the fire consume her.

 

///

 

Gwen stood outside the door to Lancelot’s bedroom, cradling a bandage between her hands. His flat was the one directly beneath hers and, as she walked down the stairs and through the hallway, she had been so certain that she could be in the same room alone with him. After all, she merely had to change the dressing on his wound and then be on her way. It would only take a moment.

Now, however, she wasn’t so sure she could bear it. She looked at the closed bedroom door on the other end of the flat, where Elyan must have been sleeping. Biting her lip, she briefly considered waking him up.

She shook her head, scolding herself for being so silly. Mustering all her bravado, she gave Lancelot’s door a few quick knocks with her fist before she could change her mind. She instantly regretted it. Her stomach flopped, and she convinced herself she had enough time to rouse Elyan before Lancelot reached the door.

She was wrong. The door opened to Lancelot’s shocked expression upon seeing her.

“Gwen,” he stammered. He looked over her shoulder as if he expected someone else to be with her. She tried not to be wounded by the action. In truth, she couldn’t recall the last time she and Lancelot had been alone together. Even in Camelot, there had always been someone else present whenever they were physically in the same room—though, she’d hesitate to say they were in each other’s company. She felt foolish for thinking this time would be any different. 

She and Lancelot did not know how to have a conversation anymore. The last one they had, while free from enchantment, had been the first they had in ages.   It was right before he died. And it had been about Arthur. She knew it was the reason Lancelot sacrificed himself. A hundred times, she replayed the conversation in her head, wondering what she could have said differently so that he, too, would return home. She had felt remorse for his death for so long.

And then there was the next time she saw him, while under Morgana’s spell. Now that she knew the truth, she wondered how much the enchantment really had to do with it. She had been drawn back to him so naturally, like driftwood caught in the river’s current. Even after the spell had been broken, she never once considered magic could have been behind it. 

This time, it wasn’t Morgana’s doing. And seeing him again had the same affect it had on her the last time. She knew she should keep her distance before doing something unforgivable—for a second time, when she had been so lucky to receive forgiveness the first, and had worked so hard to forgive herself.

But the river was flowing downstream, and she did not want to resist the current’s pull.

“Gaius asked me to change your bandages,” she said a little awkwardly, brandishing the gauze between them. It hadn’t strictly been true. Gaius didn’t ask her. She offered. She tried to tell herself it was because Gaius looked so tired from tending to the others all night, and she was doing him a favour. 

“Oh, of course!” Lancelot exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. Was that relief on his face or veiled disappointment?

He remained in the threshold, barring her entrance.

“May I come in?” she prompted after a pause.

And then there was another pause.

“Of course,” he said again, and moved away from the door.

Once inside, she wasn’t sure what to do. There weren’t any desks or chairs in the room, and the only place to sit was on the bed. Lancelot, too, peered around a little nervously, and appeared to not know what to do with his hands. He crossed and uncrossed his arms twice before shoving his fingers into his trouser pockets.

“Sit,” Gwen said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. 

Lancelot nodded quickly and did as he was told. He angled his wounded shoulder to her as she moved behind him. She tucked one leg beneath her on the mattress and sat back on it.

Inevitably, Lancelot had to remove his shirt—which, Gwen realised with a giddy swell, had been one of the tunics she’d sewn for him. 

As soon as the fabric was pulled over Lancelot’s head, she knew just how much of mistake being alone with him truly was. She bit her thumb to suppress a yell and looked away, but her eyes simply refused to listen. They stared out of their corners.

Except for the white bandage speckled with red, there wasn’t a single flaw on his back. His shoulders were broad and square and the bulging grooves of his muscles were tightly packed. A few birthmarks ran along his spine. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him topless, but the thrill it caused her never got old.

She remembered the first time she’d seen his body in Camelot, while he was trying on the fake knight uniform she’d stitched for him. It was even better than she’d imagined.

“I never thought I’d have to be treated for this wound again,” Lancelot said, bringing Gwen back from her thoughts. He had his shirt balled up in front of him, and he held it close to his stomach as though he were modest. He had absolutely no reason to be. 

Gwen mentally kicked herself for allowing such thoughts in. She set to work by gently taking the old dressing off, careful not to rip the medical tape with force. “It will heal, just as it did the last time,” she told him to distract herself from the firm brush of his skin against her knuckles, and the way he shivered against her touch. 

“It looks as though it’s already on its way.” The wound was scabbing over, and was much smaller than it had been three days ago when Gwen had first seen it. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. She didn’t know how he’d react if he knew she’d sat with him and cared for his wound many times him while he was unconscious. Being with him was so much easier when he wasn’t aware of her presence.

“Gaius says I’m lucky it wasn’t infected,” he told her from over his shoulder. “But maybe that isn’t such a problem anymore. I should think they have a cure for everything now. Or, perhaps, they did once.” He hissed a little from the cold when she rubbed some ointment onto the cut. 

“Oh, sorry!”

“No,” he excused, shaking his head. There was another long pause into which Gwen wasn’t sure what to say. Luckily, Lancelot broke it by asking, “Have you yet to see the world outside?” 

Gwen sighed, thinking of her first trip to the market, and whenever else she ventured into the city. She wouldn’t say she was becoming numb to it, because every instance was a new experience and most of the new things she learned saddened her. Instead, she was slowly growing accustom to living in the new world. 

“No,” she told him heavily. “I have seen the state it is in.”

“What do you make of it?”

She considered. “I believe it needs our help.”

“Spoken like a true queen.” She heard the smile in Lancelot’s voice, and the pride. It made her smile, too, even though she tried to hide it.

She finished patching him up, and he angled himself to face her. “Thank you,” he told her, and then remembered the shirt in his fist. “And thank you for this.”

She gave a slight bow of her head. “Of course. I knew you’d like it.” When she heard what she’d said, she panicked and tried to backtrack. “Not that I only made them for _you_. I made them for everyone! We couldn’t have you going around not wearing any clothes! No one wants to see that!” She was babbling. God, she hadn’t done that since she was still Morgana’s maid, but she couldn’t shut herself up. “Well, not _no one_. I just mean, it wouldn’t be appropriate, and—.” 

Lancelot was grinning at her, his eyes sparkling like he thought she hung the stars. 

She controlled herself, and bashfully averted her gaze. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He was still smiling. He ducked his head, trying to recapture her eyes. “Why not?”

At once, her heart sank. She felt it plunge into her gut. “It wouldn’t be appropriate,” she said again in a whisper.

Lancelot stopped smiling.

She couldn’t bear to linger. Seeing him again had been a mistake. She thought she could fool herself into denying her feelings, but she could not. She had to resist them. Lancelot had caused her so much pain, so much heartache and regret. Never again, she promised herself, would she do something unforgivable.

As quickly as she could, she collected the wasted bandage and the medical supplies she had brought in and left.

 

///

 

Sex with Merlin had always been different than with anyone else Arthur had ever bedded, but Arthur could never figure out why. At first, he thought it was because he loved Merlin, but he knew that wasn’t the real reason. After all, he’d loved Gwen. But this was different: beyond pleasure and heat and ecstasy.

When Arthur was with Merlin, he almost believed in destiny.

He thought back to the Greek myth Merlin had told him about and thought it plausible, even if it was impossible. Arthur thought maybe his search was over. What he’d been looking for had been under his noise for over a decade, brutally ripping back the curtains to let in the harsh morning sun, writing his speeches, serving him breakfast, polishing his armour, never leaving his side until the deep dark night engulfed them. Always at Arthur’s side.

In fact, it hadn’t been a search at all. The gods hadn’t kept them apart; they’d supposedly devised a grand plan to put them together. Arthur hated the thought of destiny, but he couldn’t possibly picture his life without Merlin. How could he, when an entire world existed between them? It was theirs alone—not as gods or kings or legends, but as Merlin and Arthur.

And Arthur liked the idea of _that_.

It didn’t matter how or why they’d found each other, just that they had.

All that mattered was this: their bodies crashing and rocking; their foreheads touching; Merlin’s magic burning a fire into Arthur, and blowing cool against his prickling skin like a breath; the way Merlin’s beard itched against Arthur’s cheeks; Merlin’s fingers slipping and sliding as he tried to grab hold of Arthur’s muscles; the shallow noises coming from deep within Arthur’s throat, strained but constant, as Merlin kissed them out of his mouth and sucked them from his tongue.

After, they lay beside each other, and Arthur’s vision was dark and hazy around the edges as his breath caught up to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Merlin, whose chin was tilted up to the ceiling, whose lashes swept with languid blinks as air rattled past his opened lips. He shimmered amber in the light, but perhaps Arthur was just imagining it. 

Over the years, he’d gotten to know Merlin’s body—every dip, curve, and straight, every raised freckle on his back and involuntary reaction to touch. Arthur was sure that even Merlin, for all his magic, didn’t actually have _glowing_ skin. But his eyes lit up when he came, like they did when he used magic. Arthur wondered if Merlin knew that happened.

Still, glowing or not, Arthur didn’t know how he’d gone so many days without seeing Merlin in such a state.

“Let’s not wait so long to do that again,” he said when Merlin’s eyes opened.

Merlin rolled his head on the pillow to look at Arthur. “It’s not even been a week.” 

_Only?_  

“Like I said . . .”

Merlin’s eyes lit up again, but not in gold. He looked content. More than that, he looked happy, something which Arthur hadn’t seen on him since they learned of Mordred’s resurrection. It was nice to see him smiling again.

“Works for me,” he said. “How long are you thinking?”

Arthur gave a loud, exhausted huff and tried to rally himself. “Give me five minutes to catch my breath.”

Merlin chuckled, causing the mattress the rumble. “Do what you have to,” he said, and sat up. He looked liked he was about to get up, so Arthur threw himself at him again. Merlin burst into a fit of laughter and tried to escape. He ended up on his back, halfway off the side of the mattress, with Arthur on top of him. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you,” Arthur said sternly. 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I thought you’d want me to get our pants off the kitchen floor before someone walks in, but that’s my mistake. Go on, ravage me.”

Reluctantly, Arthur rolled away and let go of Merlin, who took the bed sheet with him. Arthur tried to straighten out the bed while he was still in it, but the duvet was twisted and the bedclothes were layered in sweat. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep in them comfortably without Merlin’s body heat to accompany him. 

Moments later, Merlin came back, carrying their clothes in a ball. He made for the dresser and worked on folding the garments back inside. In the process, the sheet slipped off his shoulder, revealing milky white and a constellation of freckles. 

“You’re staring at me,” Merlin said as he worked.

“I’m trying to, but the sheet’s in the way.” Arthur leaned his back against the headboard. “Leave those for later. Come back here.”

As always, Merlin didn’t listen. He finished his chore before rejoining Arthur in bed. His limbs were a little chillier when he wrapped himself around Arthur, and it slightly rattled Arthur’s spine as they settled in. Absentmindedly, he twirled knots into Merlin’s hair.

“This is getting long,” he told Merlin. He yanked at a handful of the raven hair.

Merlin craned his neck to look up at Arthur. “Is that a complaint?”

A grin pressed itself to Arthur’s lips. “No, I like it,” he said, giving another tug that made Merlin wince slightly. 

“Ow!”

Arthur ignored the protest. “This, on the other hand—,” he brushed against Merlin’s stubble, “is annoying.”

“Good. I live to annoy you.”

“You succeed.”

Merlin only grumbled in dissent, making Arthur roll his eyes in exasperation. “Seriously, Merlin, I don’t know why you insist on keeping it." 

“Does it make you love me less?” Merlin laughed.

“No,” Arthur admitted. If learning of Merlin’s magic hadn’t come between them, Arthur was certain a beard wouldn’t. In fact, Arthur was hard pressed to find anything that would make him love Merlin less.

Gwen popped into his mind, and wondered if his feelings for her could lessen his love for Merlin. Were they two completely different entities or weights on a scale? If one fell, would the other rise? Arthur didn’t know which one would win out; but right now, he knew which one he hoped for. 

“Nothing could lessen my feelings for you,” he thought aloud, though he didn’t realise it until Merlin went very still against him.

Arthur held his breath, panicking because he didn’t know what was going through Merlin’s head. 

After a pause, Merlin answered slowly, “We’ll see about that tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 7

The lock on the morgue drawer set into place with a loud clunk. The body of Mordred’s latest victim was inside, her husband in the drawer next to her. There wasn’t a scratch on him. At least, there wasn’t when Merlin first pulled him out. His autopsy revealed nothing, including a cause of death, just like all of Mordred’s victims. However, the second autopsy proved conclusive.

As far as Merlin could tell, the stab wound by a broadsword in her chest had killed her. The cut was clean and effective, executed by someone who knew what he was doing. Executed by a knight of Camelot, one of the finest in all the land. It was a similar wound, Merlin considered, to the one that killed Arthur—the one that was now little more than a scar and a thousand years of nightmares.

Had it been any other killer, Merlin would have thought the cause of death an open and closed case, but Wallace had made him paranoid. Was it possible that Mordred had staged the wound? The woman hadn’t lost a lot of blood before dying. That meant she died quickly, before her heart could pump too much. The sword had torn the cardiac muscle, which could have meant she died instantly. 

Or it may have meant she was dead beforehand and Mordred purposely stabbed her corpse in the heart to throw Merlin off.

But there was no chance Mordred could know that much about anatomy; could there be?

Merlin snapped off his gloves and tossed them in the bin. He stood staring at the morgue drawer, his warped reflection staring back in him in the shiny silver. The subdued music from the CD in the stereo went right through him; but, in passing, Merlin realised that Jim Morrison was halfway through his _Ghost Song_ tale. 

The door swung open unceremoniously, with no knock to prelude it. Merlin sighed. He knew the exact sound of those footfalls before the newcomer even began speaking.

And _he_ chided _Merlin_ for never knocking . . . 

“There you are. Finally! Emily told me you were in Lab Two,” Arthur said as Merlin turned around. He was carrying something wrapped in tinfoil between his hands. 

There was no point in telling him he wasn’t supposed to be in the lab. He already knew it. Emily, the receptionist, knew it, too, but Merlin was convinced she fancied Arthur. She always let him in. Of course, Arthur used that to his advantage.

“She must have been too distracted by your devilish charm and read the file wrong,” Merlin droned, making Arthur roll his eyes. 

“Don’t be so jealous, Merlin. It doesn’t become you.” Merlin realised Arthur may have had a point when he came further into the room, held up the tinfoil and said, “Guinevere made this.”

“For me?” Merlin wondered, his stomach already twisting into knots. He opened the foil and found still steaming chicken and vegetables nestled inside. 

Like he’d suspected, Arthur answered, “For me. Wallace, Leon, and I spent the morning outside Maudsley. There isn’t much security, but we all think it’s best to wait until nightfall when everyone’s asleep to find Simon.” 

Merlin swallowed hard and turned towards the desk at the other end of the room. He wasn’t sure what his gut was turning over: Gwen dotingly packing Arthur a lunch, or the mention of Simon.

“Great. Thanks for your scraps,” he tried to joke. Arthur huffed out a laugh.

And then, finally, he got to the real reason he was there: “What did you find out about Mordred’s victims?”

Merlin let out a fake gasp and rounded on him. “And I thought you were here to give me lunch like any good husband would!” He tutted and shook his head. 

Arthur merely pulled an innocent face and shrugged.

His question was inevitable, as would be his denial when Merlin reported his findings.

“The first victim is just like the others, but,” Merlin started, trying to find the best way to phrase it in hopes that Arthur would accept it and move on. His chances were slim to none. “I’m pretty certain Mordred didn’t use magic on the woman.”

Arthur stepped forward, his eyes lighting up as he appeared to latch onto the words _pretty certain_.

“But you’re not sure?” he affirmed. “He may have used the Cup? My father could be alive?”

Merlin dropped the food on his desk and leaned back against the side. His stomach was rumbling as the sweet scent of the vegetables lingered in his nose. He realised he hadn’t eaten all day. He dropped his shoulders. “I don’t think so.” 

“But you don’t _know_! You can’t sense it!”

Tentatively, Merlin admitted, “No.” 

Arthur gestured as though to simultaneously say, _Well, then_ , and to convey that Merlin was an idiot. He was trying so hard to hold onto hope. So was Merlin—only, his hope was that Uther was still dust.

“You’ll be able to know for certain tonight once you get your magic back from Simon,” Arthur dismissed, like it was so simple. It wasn’t.

“I can’t just _take_ the magic back from him, Arthur. He has to willingly give it to me. And, since he probably doesn’t know how to control that . . .”

Arthur groaned loudly and dramatically before Merlin could finish his sentence. “Well, if you insist on being so useless, perhaps we can bring Simon here. _He_ may be able to sense something from the bodies.”

Merlin panicked at the very idea. It was one thing to see Simon in the confinement of the hospital, where he was at least safe; it was another thing entirely to take him into the world again. “What? No! Absolutely not!”

“He may be in better condition than you’re imagining, Merlin,” Arthur told him, raising a brow like he knew everything. He didn’t, and he was wrong. They’d find Simon in a bad way, but Arthur couldn’t accept that. He had to believe, up until the point he saw Simon, that the man was fine, unbroken. He wanted to believe Merlin hadn’t done something awful to another human being. 

Because then Merlin would be everything Arthur had been warned of as a child.

Merlin didn’t want Arthur to look at him any differently. He wanted to prevent it for as long as he could, and the clock was already ticking. He crossed his arms and looked to the floor instead. “I guess we’ll find out tonight.” 

Arthur must have decided to let it be, because he didn’t say anything for a long while. Merlin could feel his eyes on him, surveying and assessing, always trying to read Merlin’s mind. Merlin cleared his throat, because the sensation made his skin crawl. In Camelot, he’d always been so accustomed to diverting Arthur attention when the conversation became too close for comfort. Perhaps old habits really do die hard.

“You should get back to the flat. I’m nearly finished here,” Merlin told him. 

“Should we wait for you?” 

“No. I’ll meet you there soon.”

Arthur nodded slowly and turned towards the door. “Good. And don’t dilly-dally.”

“Yes, sire!”

Arthur didn’t acknowledge the remark, but he did pause and cast his gaze around the room. “You should take Gaius here,” he said thoughtfully. “He’d probably enjoy it.” 

Merlin’s jaw clamped involuntarily. He started shuffling papers on his desk just to look busy. “I’m sure he would,” he said, hoping to god he made it sound casual.

He knew he’d failed miserably when Arthur asked, “What is it?”

“What?” Merlin played dumb, but his voice sounded phony. He kept trying to look busy as he threw over his shoulder, “What’s what?”

“You.”

“Me? What about me? _You_ shouldn’t keep Wallace waiting too long. He gets testy.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Merlin hadn’t even noticed he’d tried.

Arthur was facing him fully again. His eyes were narrowed as he stalked forward like he wanted to corner his prey. “You’ve been avoiding Gaius.” He held one finger up to Merlin’s nose in an accusatory way. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Something’s the matter. Tell me.” 

Merlin hung his head and shook it, deciding whether or not to tell the truth. He didn’t want to divulge what Gaius had said, not because it would worry Arthur, but for fear that Arthur would actually agree. But, he’d promised he’d be honest with Arthur, and he’d already broken that promise too many times recently.

He ran the tip of his finger along a jagged crack in his desk, outlining its shifting trail, and shrugged softly. “He doesn’t approve of our relationship.”

Arthur fell silent again, but he did jerk his head back in surprise. Putting his hands on his hips in defence, he denied, “He said that to you?”

“Not aloud,” Merlin admitted.

At once, relief passed over Arthur’s expression. “Then, you must have misunderstood.” 

“I didn’t.”

“Of course, you did.” He began to hastily turn again, like he was on a mission. “I’ll speak to him as soon as I get to the flat.”

Merlin couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t know what Gaius might say to Arthur, what he might get Arthur to believe. He’d already gotten into Merlin’s head. 

“He thinks you should be with Gwen.” 

Arthur halted immediately like he’d walked into a wall. He stayed completely still, his shoulders squared and tensed, for longer than Merlin could hold his breath. Finally, when Merlin inhaled, Arthur turned around again, his gaze a warning not to go any further. 

But Merlin couldn’t help himself. “Can you blame him? Everyone else does, too.” Hell, even Gwen thought it! She and Arthur were still husband and wife in everyone’s eyes, and in the eyes of legend. It was how it was supposed to be. 

They had to tell her the truth before things went too far.

“Do you?” Arthur asked, making it sound like a threat.

Merlin didn’t respond. He couldn’t past the lump in his throat, but he didn’t let it show. He held Arthur’s gaze. He deserved the truth, too. “Why can’t you admit you still love her?”

Arthur shook his head, and swung around to turn away again. “We’re not having this discussion now,” he dismissed.

It made Merlin angry. How could Arthur do this? He couldn’t just string both he and Gwen along forever! Gwen deserved better—and Merlin couldn’t handle the ups and downs of hope and despair for much longer. Or else he’d end up in the room right next to Simon’s.

“No, we _are_ having this discussion now,” Merlin fired back, standing up from his desk at full height, “and you can stop lying to me!” 

Arthur scoffed out something that sounded like a laugh, all his defences immediately going up. His fingers latched tighter against his sides. “ _I’m_ the liar? That’s a bit rich coming from you, Merlin!”

Merlin wasn’t certain how he’d outwardly reacted. On this inside, his heart had jumped into his throat. He could taste it, as bitter and as coarse as dust, on his tongue. But he must have physically reacted in some small way, too, because Arthur immediately regretted his words. Guilt flashed across his posture.

“Merlin, I’m . . .”

Merlin turned around and got back to shuffling the papers. His thoughts were screaming a thousand different slurs, but he bit them back.

When Arthur sighed, Merlin could tell he’d hung his head, too.

“I didn’t mean—.” 

But Merlin knew he’d meant every word. It was more than dredging up old wounds. He was speaking of recent events, too. Simon, Freya, Lancelot. Maybe Merlin hadn’t been as open with Arthur as either of them would have liked to believe. He told himself he was being honest, that all his secrets were laid bare in his journals for Arthur to know.

But he also knew that Arthur would never read them.

That was as good as lying, wasn’t it? Omission. Silence had been Merlin’s favourite lie for fifteen hundred years.

And he wasn’t about to stop now.

“You’re right,” he said, and felt Arthur’s gaze swoop up again attentively. Merlin clarified, “We don’t have time for this. Go back to the flat. I’ll see you tonight.”

Arthur lingered for a little while longer. Merlin prayed he would leave. He was running out of papers to keep him busy. He’d restacked the same pile three times already.

But, when Arthur did go, tail between his legs, it only hollowed out a pit in Merlin’s chest. And Merlin wished he’d come back.

 

///

 

All of the foot traffic remained on the pavements along the main road. The crowd was too busy haggling with shop owners, begging for scraps, or tugging their children along by the arm to look into the shadows of the alley. Mordred peered out, zeroing in on the group across the street brandishing signs about Jesus their Lord and Saviour. All of the passersby adamantly ignored their presence.

Something shuffled near the rubbish bins behind Mordred. Swiftly, he reached for his sword and spun the point towards the intruder. He settled upon seeing the face. It was one that he had the displeasure of calling somewhat familiar.

The man limped closer toward him, but made sure to stay out of the patch of sunlight streaming into the alley. When he got too close, he shielded his sunken eyes with his blood-blistered hand, covering the scar that cut down his forehead and cheek.

“I was told you have news for me,” Mordred asked the sorry creature, and put away his sword.

The junkie hummed in affirmation. His eyes skittered whenever a pedestrian walked by the mouth of the alley to Mordred’s back. “Saw one’a your gents, I did,” he said, revealing a self-satisfied crooked smile. “Not too far from ‘ere.”

Mordred blanched. He hadn’t expected that holier than thou golden boy to broach a place so seedy. Though, perhaps, it hadn’t been Arthur. “Which one?” he demanded.

“Dark ‘aired one,” was the answer, as Mordred suspected. “Watched ‘im get inta Reggie’s flat m’self. ’E was wif some oth’r bloke, too. Pretty boy. Tall.”

That could have been any one of Arthur’s men—or none of them. What purpose would Merlin and Arthur’s knights have with a drug dealer. “You’re certain it was him?” Mordred cautioned. 

The junkie nodded furiously. “Got me a good look,” he said, manually widening one of his eyes with two gnarled fingers. Mordred tried not to curl his nose in disgust.

“Which way did they go from there?”

“Came back round ‘ere,” said the junkie. “Got on one of them motorbikes an’ rode off t’wards Spitalfields. Got some oth’rs to keep look out for ‘em. Ellie saw the blon’ one near some ‘ospital.”

“What hospital?”

The man grumbled in thought, trying Mordred’s patience. He almost reached for his sword to quicken the thought process, when the man snapped his fingers and said, “Maudsley!”

Mordred repeated the name. Whatever spell Merlin had protecting the whereabouts of his flat was a powerful one. None of Mordred’s spies, Neo or vagrant alike, were ever able to keep eyes on him or Arthur long enough to follow them home. They always mysteriously vanished off the map before they reached their destination. 

But perhaps Mordred did not need their flat anymore. He didn’t know what business Merlin and Arthur had at Maudsley Hospital, but he’d find out. Immediately.

“Good work,” Mordred told the junkie, though there was no genuine praise in his tone. There were slight hints of gratitude, but only because Mordred had forgotten himself in his eagerness to act. He turned to leave.

“Hang on!” the junkie whined. “I gave you good info, I did! You gotta give me some’fin’, too.”

All traces of gratitude fell away when Mordred faced him again. “Of course. I remember our bargain,” he said, and reached down again towards his sword. 

He bypassed the hilt and fished through his pocket. From it, he produced two, tiny plastic pouches filled with sparkling blue-purple powder. He flicked them towards the junkie, who scrambled to catch them. When he settled and looked down at the drugs, the hungered glint in his eyes turned to disappointment.

“I gave you good info,” he repeated angrily, and took a charged step forward. “Price’a tha’ should be dif’rent than usual, don’ya say?”

Mordred considered. He did not want this man to expect too much at one time, especially because he put in such meagre work in obtaining his information. He got lucky, nothing more.

“You’re right!” Mordred agreed, putting too much enthusiasm in his voice. He muttered a quick spell, and his eyes flashed amber. One of the pouches in the junkie’s hand burst, scattering the powder everywhere.

The junkie let out a cry and jerked to salvage what powder he could off his skin. He dropped to the floor and uselessly attempted to sweep it up with his fingers.

“Different price,” Mordred told him. “You’ve earned it.”

The junkie shot him a glare that was supposed to be scathing, but only appeared panicked and lowly. A spark of pity plucked at Mordred’s heart, but he quickly pushed it down.

When he turned away again, he didn’t look back, despite the curses being flung at him.

 

///

 

Night had quickly fallen around Maudsley Hospital, a long, two-storey brick monolith that Lancelot of which never wished to see the interior. However, inside was exactly where they were going. 

Sneaking, more like.

They were going through such effort to keep their meeting secret that Merlin’s protection of Simon could only be born of remorse. Lancelot thought it was very brave of him to return to the hospital in the first place, but he knew Merlin would reject the thought if Lancelot voiced it.

With the others waiting outside, Lancelot, Merlin, and Arthur went into the entrance room and paused behind the second set of doors. Lancelot opened them a fraction and peered into the lobby of the building. A security guard, flipping through a newspaper, sat at a desk in the middle of the room. On either side of the lobby, two corridors led to the wings of the hospital.

“How do we distract him?” Lancelot asked as Merlin and Arthur bent over to peer through the crack, too.

“I might have a way,” Merlin said, faking both the brightness in his tone and a sly smirk. Lancelot didn’t dwell on the sour taste it put in his mouth.

Merlin’s eyes glowed and a door down the far corridor slammed loudly. The guard at the desk jerked into attention. He stood up and leaned over the desk to peer down the empty hallway. Warily, he glanced around before leaving his post. He started towards the sound and disappeared around the corner.

“Go. He won’t be distracted for long,” Arthur ordered. He hurried towards the open doors and hid behind the threshold to keep watch. Lancelot and Merlin rushed for the filing cabinets behind the guard’s desk.

“Look for the names starting with Q. Q for Quinn,” Merlin said quickly as he ripped open one of the cabinets. It was filled to the brim with manila file folders, but he only gave them a cursory glance before closing the drawer and moving on to the one beneath it.

Lancelot took the column of cabinets to Merlin’s left and began searching. The first name he saw was Poole, so he searched the back of the drawer for any Q-names. Briefly, he was distracted by the way Merlin’s fingers flew from one record to the other as he hastily sorted through them. He wondered if Merlin’s file was still somewhere in these cabinets, or if it had been discarded. 

It must have been strange for him to be back in this place after so long.

“What’s taking so long?” Arthur snipped in a harsh whisper.

Merlin let out an annoyed breath and dropped his shoulders. “We’re _looking_.”

“Look faster!”

As Merlin grumbled something about pompous, condescending prats under his breath, Lancelot reminded himself to move quickly. He closed the drawer and opened the next. There were a few more records beginning with P until he finally reached the letter Q. 

_Quinn, Simon_ , one of them read. He tugged it out.

“Got it.”

Merlin didn’t seem relieved in the slightest. In fact, he tensed even more; but he snatched the file from Lancelot’s hands and opened it to skim the pages. “Room 224,” he reported, closing the file and putting it back. Lancelot followed him around the desk as Merlin whistled to Arthur.

Meanwhile, Lancelot ran to the entrance door and motioned for the others to come in. They filled into the lobby as footsteps from down the corridor sounded. Quickly, they made for the doors leading in the opposite direction. 

They took a stairwell to the top floor, where Merlin nearly barged through the door without first checking if the area was clear. Arthur grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back.

“ _Mer_ lin, you _idiot_ , look!” he hissed, pointing through the small window on the door. Lancelot peered over his shoulder and spotted a woman reading a book at the nurse’s station. The light over her head was the only thing illuminating the darkened corridor.

It was hard to miss, and Lancelot wondered why Merlin hadn’t seen it. Usually, he was more careful. 

“I can cause a diversion,” Elyan offered. 

“But for how long? We’ll have to pass her again on our way out. I doubt she’ll be fooled twice,” Lancelot reasoned. At least, they could leave the hospital through a backdoor. They wouldn’t have to run into the security guard again, but the nurse was unavoidable. 

“Put her to sleep, Merlin,” Arthur decided, though he appeared to grapple with the decision. The muscles in his face tensed and his eyes hardened as they watched the nurse.

Merlin held up his hand, and the reflection in the small window flashed amber. After a breath, the nurse slumped in her chair, her head lolling and her book dropping to her lap. 

When they pushed through the door, Arthur lingered momentarily at the nurse’s station. Composing himself, he ordered, “Spread out. We’re looking for Room 224.”

Immediately, the group dispersed. Lancelot stuck close to Merlin as he scanned the plaques numbering the doors around them. Some of the numbers were torn off the wall, and the chipped paint peeled around the thresholds. Small dots in varying patterns were beneath each number. Lancelot ran his finger across the raised bumps on the plaque reading 217, and wondered what their purpose was.

“It’s brail,” Merlin said, seeming to read his mind. He’d stopped a few paces away, apparently giving up his search. Lancelot blinked at him in question and echoed the word. “It’s a way for blind people to read. Every series of dots is a different letter or number.” 

Lancelot shook his head, unable to fathom how anyone could decipher bumps just by touching them. They all felt the same to him. But, mostly, he wondered, “If they’re blind, how do they know where the plaque is?” 

Merlin didn’t seem to have an answer. He turned around and started away again. With one last glance at the brail, Lancelot hastened to Merlin’s side. He took in his friend’s demeanour—the preoccupied look in his eyes, the way he pointedly didn’t gaze about his surroundings, his sharp movements and slumped posture. 

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked, dropping his voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

“’Course,” said Merlin, trying to be casual. Lancelot saw right through it.

“You cannot fool me so easily, Merlin. I know you too well.”

Merlin stopped walking again and faced Lancelot, who mirrored the movement. For a moment, Merlin dropped his guard, and he opened his mouth with a heavy exhale, like he was about to speak his mind. Lancelot gave him his full attention as a show of support. But Merlin couldn’t utter a syllable before Percival called from nearby, “Here!”

Everyone flocked to the door he was standing before. Lancelot felt a tight pull in his chest when Merlin’s expression blanked again and he moved to join the others. 

The room through the window in the door was dark like all the rest, but Lancelot didn’t see a figure lying in the bed. Instead, a man sat in a wheelchair, his back to the door. He was motionless, as if asleep. 

Arthur pushed the door open slowly, eliciting a creak. Lancelot watched Merlin, who readied himself with a deep rattling breath.

They filed quietly into the room, and Leon closed the door behind them. Simon didn’t react. He remained completely still, even when they formed a semi-circle in front of him. They blocked his view of the glass doors he was staring out. Their curtains were pulled back, and it led out to a small terrace that overlooked the grounds. It was a mediocre view, but probably the best one the hospital had to offer. Although, Lancelot wasn’t certain Simon could appreciate it. His eyes were open, Lancelot realised, but they looked sightless and veiled. Lancelot considered maybe Simon was blind, but he didn’t react their presence at all. 

Simon was a middle-aged man, but he looked much older. Wrinkles lined his cheeks and forehead, and his brittle gray hair was thinning and receding. His limbs were thin and delicate, and his body looked like it would break before it bent.

“Is he . . . _asleep_?” Gwaine asked unsurely.

“With his eyes open?” Elyan said, wrinkling his nose in scepticism.

“I knew a man who slept with his eyes open,” Percival offered. “I could never sleep around him. It felt like he was watching me.” 

Gwaine leaned in and waved his palm over Simon’s eyes, testing for a response. Instantly, four hands slapped his away while four voices admonished, “ _Gwaine_!”

Languidly, Simon blinked. It took them all by surprise, and the room fell silent again.

Until Simon spoke. It sounded like he hadn’t used his voice in ages. “I knew you were here. I felt your presence, Emrys.” 

All attention slowly focused on Merlin. Bodies angled themselves towards the man hovering over Arthur’s shoulder, shielded by the shadows. He looked up at the onslaught of stares, and then turned his attention to Simon. Hesitantly, he came out of hiding and knelt in front of Simon’s chair. 

“I’m here,” he said, but just barely.

Simon kept staring forward, his gaze pointed to the window above Merlin’s head. “You still look the same,” he said anyway, but Lancelot was still unsure the man could see. It must have been the magic still inside of him allowing him to feel his way through the world. Like brail.

Merlin swallowed hard and nodded rapidly. His lips twisted as he fought back emotion.

“I was wondering when you’d come back for your power,” Simon told him.

Merlin bowed his head, and shook it gently. “I can’t take it from you,” he apologised. “But I— _we_ —need your help, if you can.”

Simon lifted his chin knowingly. “You’re trying to find the witch.”

Merlin nodded softy, as though it were an apology. “Yes.”

“You do not need to find them,” Simon told him. 

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur stepped forward. His tone attempted to relay the urgency of their situation. “Yes, we do.”

“No,” said Simon, “you don’t.”

Arthur bit down on his mounting frustration, and Merlin hung his head in a patient sigh. The others looked hopeless, and they possibly were beginning to believe their trip wasted. Lancelot could not accept that. He peered about the room, trying to decipher who Simon truly was as a person. Perhaps there was some clue that may have helped Lancelot to connect to him, to reach him on a human level. However, the room held no personal artefacts. 

“Simon,” Merlin whispered despondently, but Simon cut him off before he could continue on.

“You do not need to find them, because they are already here.”

Everyone’s head jerked back in Simon’s direction. The floor had dropped out from beneath Lancelot as he stared into Simon’s hollow eyes, which were still focused on the outside. Quickly, he moved to the windowed doors and peered out of the curtains, careful to stand to the side so he couldn’t be seen.

Simon was right. The enemy was upon them.

A group of over a dozen stood on the grounds outside the hospital. Mordred, Morgause, and Cenred were at the front. Lancelot squinted at the man standing next to Morgause. He had seen him on what Merlin called the television, and recognised him as Nigel Cyrus. Eight Neo-Druids stood behind them, brandishing guns and swords.

Morgana stood before them all, a few paces ahead of the group. Above her, a man in a filthy black tunic and dark trousers caked in dust and hay was suspended in mid-air. He was unconscious.

Lancelot prepared himself for what was to come. 

“Arthur,” he said, drawing Arthur’s attention to the window. 

Arthur and Merlin appeared over his shoulder, and took in the scene before them. In the close space, he heard Arthur’s teeth clench as his gaze locked on the unconscious man. 

“Father,” he whispered, his voice as hard as armour. Without hesitation, he ripped open the glass door of the terrace. Merlin rasped his name in panic and reached for him, but Arthur was too determined—and it was too late. He was already outside. 

“Morgana!”

When Merlin rushed after him, Lancelot unsheathed his sword and did the same. They flanked Arthur on either side. Behind them, the rest of the knights crowded in. The enemy outnumbered them, and it was possible there was another group positioned elsewhere, but that never stopped the Knights of Camelot before.

Morgana looked up at the balcony, and a smile crossed her teeth. Even the wind fell hushed. 

“Hello, dear brother,” she taunted, her voice a normal volume, but it slithered upwards towards them and was heard as clear as a bell. In a more spiteful, snide tone, she added, “Emrys.”

As though the name had drawn out a new being, Merlin became someone else. His eyes darkened and he straightened his posture until he was at his full height.

“And all your merry men,” Morgana went on. “Where is your queen, Arthur? I was rather hoping she’d be here.”

Lancelot’s fists tightened in anger and defence. So did Arthur’s, but he was better at controlling it. He lifted his chin, and had to look down his nose at her.

“Let father go,” he demanded, calling out so he could be heard.

Morgana gave a pitying laugh. It echoed. “As if I would do such a thing!” she said, and then the mirth fell from her tone: “Not when I have everyone just where I want them.”

“And where’s that?”

“In the audience.”

From beneath her coat, she pulled out a hotly bright white orb. It was hard to look at, like staring into the sun. It went against all of Lancelot’s instincts to look at it dead on.

She held it up in one hand and uttered a spell in an ancient language. Merlin pressed himself to the balcony’s railing, and held out his arm across Arthur’s chest like a shield. He appeared ready to pounce. However, when Morgana’s eyes glowed amber, the orb simply floated out of her hand and hovered low before her. 

“Come, little brother,” she said, “look upon your downfall.”

Lancelot doubled his grip on his sword. He didn’t know what the orb was, but he was certain it was some kind of weapon. He wasn’t sure if he stood a chance fighting it, but he would die trying. Behind him, his fellow knights were equally prepared to do the same. 

“This bomb bends to my every command. It will target and kill every living soul without magic within the hospital,” said Morgana. “But don’t fret, Arthur. I’ll leave you alive—perhaps, I’ll spare your soldiers, too. Neither you nor they matter anymore. You will see the world the Neo-Druids will build in the knowledge that you had no power to stop me.”

Arthur’s breath was tripping out of him, no matter how he tried to command himself. It was like he believed her. In that moment, Lancelot believed her, too. He certainly felt powerless. 

Morgana was chanting again, and the orb rose higher into the air, up passed Uther, until it was level with the hospital’s roof. Merlin had his palm up, fingers splayed tensely. His eyes glowed and faded again and again as all his attempts to stop the orb failed. Frustrated and desperate, he tried verbalizing the spells instead. It didn’t work. 

“You can’t stop it, Emrys!” Morgana called. “It is pure magic! Every spell will only make it stronger!”

Lancelot’s heart was hammering. He suddenly felt like nothing more than a boy playing pretend with a sword made of a feeble tree branch.

Merlin lowered his arm, and searched for something else he could do. His eyes were wide and terrified, but he must have come up with an idea. “Everyone, inside!” he warned, and lifted his hand again.

Lancelot did not question him. He spun around immediately and ordered the knights, “Inside! Go!” They hustled to obey.

Over his shoulder, Lancelot saw a purple, silky glow sprout in all directions from Merlin’s palm. It shimmered as it encompassed the building.

“That won’t keep me out for long, Emrys!” Morgana shouted, halfway between enraged and gleeful. She sounded manic.

Merlin dragged Arthur inside and slammed the balcony doors behind them. 

“We have to get everyone out of here—the doctors, the patients,” Arthur commanded. 

Lancelot’s eyes fell to Simon, who had not moved a muscle. He appeared as though none of this fazed him. Lancelot wondered if that was true, or if he was just very good as schooling his emotions. He wished he had such control, because he was frightened.

“How? Even if we could do that in time, Morgana will kill them outside,” Elyan said.

“We must do something,” said Leon. “She will find her way inside eventually.”

“Leon is right,” Arthur decided. “If we just sit here—.”

He was cut off by a loud bang, akin to a battering ram slamming against a castle’s defences. The floor rattled upon impact. 

“What the hell was that?” Gwaine exclaimed.

Again, Lancelot ran to the window. Morgana, Mordred, and Morgause had their arms stretched up to the sky. He followed the line, and saw the black night had opened up to a swirling mass of fire. Balls of it rained down on the hospital. The weaker ones bounced off Merlin’s magical shield, but the stronger ones shook the building. They threatened to tear a hole in the defences.

The white orb still hung amongst it all. It was emitting more light now, and it left imprints on Lancelot’s eyelids when he blinked.

“They’re trying to break through,” he reported, turning back to the group.

“How long until the shield wears away?” Arthur asked Merlin.

Merlin stammered a little and shook his head. “I don’t know! Minutes?”

Another loud bang. The building must have sustained some damage from it. The floor quaked more than the last time, and the walls shuddered. Distantly, Lancelot heard panicked voices coming from down the corridor. The other residents of the hospital were awake. 

“Moments?” Merlin amended. 

Arthur nodded, and Lancelot commended him for not allowing the fear in his eyes to seep into his tone. “Right. All of you,” he ordered the knights, “find a back exit. Get as many people as you can out of here. Do not attempt to battle Morgana or Mordred—or any of the Neos. Leave her to me. I will not leave here without my father.” He whipped back towards Merlin. “Stay here and find a way to reinforce the shield. Buy them as much time as you can to get everyone out.”

There would be argument. Lancelot knew it even before Merlin shouted, “I’m not leaving you!” 

“Merlin, now’s not the time to—!” 

The explosion that erupted had been greater than any previous. It felt like the whole building were a sinking ship that had been thrown on its side. They all stumbled into each other to keep their balance until the quake ceased. More tremors followed. There could be no doubt that Morgana had gotten through the shield.

Balls of fire came through, shattering windows and setting the room alight.

“Move, now!” Arthur yelled. He sprinted for the door and ripped it open.

“No! Arthur!” Merlin scrambled after him; but, before he could reach the door, it slammed shut with more force than it should have. Arthur was on the other side, and Lancelot doubted he paused. Merlin gripped the knob with two hands and started to pull. The door thundered inside its frame, but didn’t budge.

“Arthur! Arthur!” he screamed, giving up on the knob and banging on the wood.

Arthur was long gone.

Everyone started to cough into their hands. The smoke was building up, and becoming suffocating. Lancelot felt it lodged in his throat, making its way to fill his lungs like cement. The fires blazing around him were no longer just causing sweat on his hairline. Their temperature was growing, and becoming dry and scorching.

“Morgana wants us trapped,” Leon managed to say, but he was wrong. 

“She wants the victims trapped,” Lancelot corrected, and once more moved to the window. The orb was blinding now. Suddenly, it divided itself into hundreds of smaller balls of light. Each of them spun and burst off in different directions. Lancelot saw them crash through the windows along the hospital. 

One zipped passed his face, into the shattered glass door of the terrace. He quickly turned to follow its path. “No!” he shouted, reaching out, but it was too late. The white ball hit Simon directly in the chest and disappeared inside of him as though he weren’t solid, and at last the man’s body jerked. His hands tightened around the ends of the wheelchair’s armrest until his knuckles went white. Veins throbbed in his neck. His skin was turning as red as the flames around them.

Merlin ran in front of Simon and called his name. Simon began to scream, loud and piercing. It was a wail. Lancelot winced and buckled over against the noise. When it died away, Lancelot realised that Simon had died with it. 

“I thought he had magic!” Gwaine called out.

Lancelot couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t know how much the smoke had to do with it. His eyes were watering.

“It’s my magic,” he heard Merlin whisper, and was certain no one else had. He stumbled a few steps backward away from Simon, like he was scared. Lancelot understood why a moment later.

Simon began to glow gold. It emitted first from his chest, where his motionless heart was. Quickly, it spread to the rest of him. The light appeared to lift from his skin and filtered upward. It sparkled like dust in beams of sunlight as it collected together. 

“Everyone get down!” Merlin warned. His expression was stricken. His eyes were peeled onto the magical energy. Lancelot did not want to hide. He had the urge to throw himself between Merlin and the magic, to protect him from it.

The pulsing gold had completely lifted from Simon, leaving him pale with death. It hovered above him.

“Get down now!” 

Lancelot dropped to his knees as the magic surged towards Merlin and pierced his chest. It slammed into him, causing him to glow as Simon had. And, as Simon had, Merlin was screaming with anguish.

The entire room was filled with hot light, between the raging flames and Merlin. When Merlin had fully absorbed the magic, the golden glow burnt out as quickly as a candle in a deep breath. Somehow, the room seemed dark in comparison to what it just was. 

Merlin swayed unsteadily, and appeared like he might crumple. Lancelot sprang up and caught him. He slung Merlin’s arm over his shoulder. Merlin’s head lolled into him and he groaned weakly. His feet dragged with dead weight.

“Morgana is gone,” Lancelot heard Percival, who had taken his place at the window, report.

The news did not relieve Lancelot. It caused him more panic. Where had they gone? Had they taken Arthur with them?

He swallowed his fears. They did him no good.

“We must get out of here!” he said to the room as a whole. They rushed for the door, which now opened easily. Lancelot carried Merlin out. They were the last to leave the room. In the doorway, he looked back at Simon’s body, slouched in his chair. Flames leapt onto the curtains and swallowed them whole. Lancelot adjusted Merlin’s weight and heaved forward.

The hallway was still a furnace, but it was better than Simon’s room had been. The woman in the nurse’s station was still hunched over in sleep. Elyan rushed to her and felt for a pulse. She would never awaken.

The stairwell they had come up before was crowded with black smoke. It was not safe to go inside. They had to find another in the opposite wing of the hospital. 

He had to drag Merlin the entire way out of the hospital, through the corridors scattered with fresh bodies with faces stretched in silent agony. Lancelot wished he could do something to honour their memory, to keep them from being consumed by the flames and forgotten in the rubble. He was certain they deserved better than that—all the doctors and staff that had dedicated their lives to helping the ill, and all the patients who hopefully would find their peace and silence in death. 

Merlin’s weight was getting heavier with each step. He kept toppling over and swaying into Lancelot, too disoriented to hold himself upright for long. He kept muttering things about the Old Religion, until all else dissolved into Arthur’s whispered name. They kept lagging behind the group. On the ground floor, with the exit door in sight past a corridor of licking flames, Percival threw Merlin’s other arm around him and helped Lancelot take him the rest of the way. 

Their group broke through into the car park next to the hospital. The open air instantly gave relief. Lancelot took in a heaving breath, filling himself up with clearer oxygen. The blaze still burned his back, but it no longer came at him at all sides, slowly roasting him like an oven. With the relatively cool breeze on his face, he realised how sensitive and blistered his skin had become. He cast a quick glance to his companions. All of their skin was flushed pink and red with heat. 

Once they were halfway through the car park, they paused to rest, and looked back at the building. The fire had grown wilder, as smoke billowed up to form clouds and flames crashed through the windows and doors. The building would be gone in minutes. If anyone inside had survived Morgana’s bomb, they had almost certainly perished in the flames.

Lancelot gulped, praying Arthur wasn’t trapped within the walls. But he was nowhere in sight. Lancelot wondered what would be worse: Arthur dying in the fire, or dying at Morgana’s hand.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the leftover smoke. It was clouding his judgment. He couldn’t think such thoughts. They would find Arthur—alive.

He readjusted his hold on Merlin, taking him from Percival. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. He, too, seemed to be coming out of his fog. He leaned off of Lancelot, trying to stand on his own. “Arthur,” he repeated, more alert—and much more terrified.

“We will find him,” Lancelot swore. He would not let Merlin down, not after all he’d gone through. He directed at the knights, “Search the grounds. Find Arthur. If you see Morgana or her army, do not engage!”

The knights gripped their swords tighter and prepared to follow the order.

“I will get Merlin to safety and then join you,” Lancelot finished. 

Merlin shook his head weakly, but with vigour. “No. No. I need—I need to find Arthur.”

“You’re in no condition, Merlin. Allow us to—.” 

“ _Arthur_!” 

No matter how Lancelot tried to hold him back, Merlin struggled from his grip. “Arthur! No, I won’t leave him! Arthur!”

As Merlin began to stumble back towards the inferno, five concerned voices called for him to stop. Merlin didn’t even appear to hear them. He swayed as he went along, tripping over his own wobbling feet like a newborn fawn. He clutched at his head like he had a migraine, but continued on. Lancelot could not allow him to take another step. Merlin could feel the Old Religion’s pull on the earth again, and Freya had said there was more magic in the world than was intended. It must have been consuming Merlin’s body, ripping through him with devastation, and overwhelming his mind.

He needed to get it under control.

Lancelot knew he would not. Arthur would always be his foremost priority.

“Arthur!”

The knights rushed for him, quickly able to catch up. They surrounded him, and Lancelot placed himself in front of Merlin to halt his process. “Merlin, you _must_ let us find him! You’ll only slow us down. Please, listen!”

At first, Merlin slowed, and his eyes flickered like he was considering. Lancelot was relieved to know he was getting through to him. But then there was a loud crash from behind him. Lancelot whipped around. The hospital’s roof had caved in.

Lancelot felt his chest do the same. In the moment, he was certain Arthur was still inside.

Merlin bellowed out Arthur’s name, his terror renewed. If Arthur truly were gone, Lancelot would not allow Merlin to suffer the same fate. He grabbed Merlin’s arms and tried to stay him. From behind, Gwaine wrapped his arms tightly around Merlin’s torso and pulled him back. 

“No! No, _Arthur_!”

Merlin’s shouts rattled Lancelot’s spine and sent goose bumps down his skin. He ignored it and did all he could to settle Merlin’s thrashing limbs. Gwaine’s grip around him tightened. 

Merlin screamed, more horribly than he had in Simon’s room. It sounded more like a roar. Lancelot saw his eyes burn gold half a moment before he was ripped off his feet. He was on the cracked tarmac, with a sharp pain in his spine and blood damping the back of his head, before he’d known what happened. Blackness overcame his vision, and he blinked hard and shook his head to fight it. He sat up, ignoring his protesting body. Around him, his fellow knights were sprawled about. 

The only thing he could hear was the deafening fire behind him. He rattled his head again, and sound began to fade back in. He heard groans of pain as the other knights sat upright and composed themselves.

Lancelot realised Gwaine was the only one left standing. He had placed himself between Merlin and the building, and side-stepped to block his path each time Merlin attempted to get around him. He held his palms out like he was taming a wild animal. 

“He’s alright, Merlin, yeah? You have to calm down. We’ll find Arthur,” Gwaine was urging. 

“I’m not leaving him!” Merlin shouted. His tone was furious, but tears fell from his lashes.

“No one’s asking you to.”

Merlin heaved and shuddered. “I can’t lose him again!”

“I understand.” 

“You _understand_?” Merlin repeated, aghast as the rage won over the fear. “How could _you_ understand?” He surged forward, and held up a tense fist. “You’ve got no idea!” 

Gwaine clutched his throat, where the bruises from the collar Mordred had trapped him in were just beginning to fade, and began to gag. Something invisible was blocking his air.

Everyone else jumped to their feet and sprang cautiously forward. Leon drew his sword.

“No, stop!” Lancelot ordered him, and Leon paused. “Merlin, let him go!”

Elyan paced forward tentatively, but looked like he didn’t want to get too close. Percival’s eyes were locked on Gwaine.

“He is your friend,” Lancelot pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears. 

“I waited fifteen-hundred years for him!” Merlin shouted at Gwaine. His arms were trembling with tension, and another tear rolled down his cheeks. “My whole life is for him! Who is he to you? _I_ will find Arthur! _I_ will protect him! _I_ will make him king! If you _ever_ try to get in my _fucking_ way, I will put you back in your grave!” 

Lancelot froze. Everyone did. They hung suspended, none of them knowing what to do. Never had Lancelot seen such anger in Merlin. Never had he been so afraid of his friend. It was as though the man before him wasn’t Merlin at all. He was Emrys. There was no human before them, set aglow with gold by the flames’ reflection. There was only power, the very embodiment of the Old Religion. Only a dragon. 

Lancelot thought he’d seen glimpses of the darkness in Merlin, but this was something new. This was a pit, empty and eternal. It went down further than Lancelot had ever imagined.

Gwaine continued to sputter and discolour. In the gags, Lancelot thought he was trying to say Merlin’s name. 

“Merlin!” 

The word sounded like a command. It rang out from the opposite end of the car park. Lancelot’s neck snapped in the direction it had come. He’d never been so relieved in his life.

“Arthur!” Merlin choked out. He dropped his hand, completely forgetting about Gwaine, who crumpled to his knees and drank in bouts of air. Percival, Leon, and Elyan ran to his side to support him.

“’m fine, I’m fine,” Gwaine rasped out embarrassedly as Lancelot came closer to get a look for himself. It appeared no physical damage was done, but Gwaine could not meet any of their eyes.

In the meantime, Merlin had run to Arthur. All his rage had died. The only thing that mattered anymore was the man before him—alive, impossible, unharmed. When Lancelot turned his gaze towards them in the distance, he saw their silhouettes framed against the orange glow rampant behind them. Arthur had his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and was whispering something to him that Lancelot could not hear. Merlin twisted the front of Arthur’s shirt with his fists, inhaled shakily, and skewed his eyes shut. He nodded fiercely. Arthur’s hand wrapped around the back of Merlin’s neck and dipped him in close until their foreheads touched.

_I’m here_ , Lancelot thought he saw Arthur mouth.

Merlin nodded against Arthur, and then Arthur released him. He squared himself and hustled to the rest of the group. As he approached, Lancelot saw the caked on soot on his cheeks. The line of his shoulders was decidedly courageous. 

“Can he walk?” Arthur asked, gesturing to Gwaine.

“Yeah, _he_ can,” Gwaine answered, his tone curt. As though to prove it, he tore away from the helpful hands around him and struggled to his feet.

Lancelot looked over Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin hadn’t moved. Finally, it seemed his actions had dawned on him. His expression was twisted into shame and sorrow. Lancelot’s chest hollowed. He never thought he’d pity Merlin. 

“Good,” Arthur was saying. “Morgana’s gone. She took my father with her. We need to get back to the factory and figure out our next move.” Not waiting for a response, he pushed past the group and started in the direction of the street, where the car was parked a block away. 

Slowly, the rest of them followed. Lancelot remained, his gaze fixed on Merlin. 

“Gwaine,” Merlin pleaded under his breath, but if Gwaine had heard, he didn’t acknowledge him. Merlin shuddered with a sob and met Lancelot’s eyes. He needed forgiveness from someone—anyone. “Lancelot,” he begged. 

Lancelot tensed. He hated himself for his pity, and he had no right to offer Merlin absolution.

Forcing it down, he held out his hand and beckoned for Merlin. “Come, Merlin. We’re leaving this place.”

Merlin swallowed hard and nodded, casting his eyes to his shoes. He shuffled forward, his head bent and his shoulders curled into his body. Lancelot waited until Merlin was at his side, and they followed the group together.

 

///

 

Gwen waited outside Arthur’s bedroom door, pacing and biting her thumbnail. Such a habit was something she’d broken years ago, but now she felt as though it was the only thing calming her. She stopped herself the moment the door opened and Lancelot stepped out.

He’d gone in an hour ago in attempt to calm Merlin. Elyan told Gwen what happened at the hospital. It worried her that Morgana had no trouble finding them. More than that, she worried why Merlin had lost control of himself. He’d always been composed in the face of danger. They could not afford for him to lose himself, especially with Morgana and Mordred on their trail.

Merlin was more powerful than both of them combined. Without him, they stood no chance of winning. Perhaps that had been Morgana’s plan.

“How is he?” she worried when Lancelot shut the door behind him. 

“He’s sleeping. So is Arthur,” was the answer. Lancelot looked too exhausted to say much else on the matter. Still, he shook his head ruefully. “I’ve never seen him like that—either of them. They really are—.” 

He stopped himself, suddenly stricken. Gwen narrowed her eyes at him. He’d wanted to say something else, but it was as though he didn’t want to cross some line. He was keeping something from her. 

“You’ve seen it, too?” she asked, and she was suddenly relieved. She thought she’d been overreacting, or going mad.

Lancelot’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve seen nothing.” But he had.

“ _Please_ , Lancelot, I know you too well. You’ve noticed there’s something between them lately, something they aren’t saying.”

He remained hesitant, and all hope left her.

“You won’t say, either,” she sighed. 

“There is nothing to say,” he insisted.

She scoffed, unable to look at him. She looked at the bedroom door, as though she could see inside it. “You always hold your tongue because you think it will spare my feelings, when really it is to spare your own.”

He froze. Gwen heard his breath catch between them. She felt her own nerves knotting, as she knew this was a dangerous subject to broach. But she could no longer keep her thoughts to herself. Lancelot had been avoiding her—now, and in the final years of his life in Camelot. Sometimes, she felt as though she didn’t know him anymore; but she would often feel his eyes on her, even though he looked away when she tried to return the gaze. 

“For once, speak your mind,” she demanded. 

She paused, patiently waiting for him to speak. When he did, he said slowly, “I do not know what you wish for me to say.”

Typical.

She straightened out the wrinkle in the front of her blouse with open palms, just to have something to fidget with. “There was a time when you were not so reserved with me,” she reminded him. That was so long ago now. “Why do you feel you must shut me out? You’ve kept me so outside of yourself.” 

“You know why,” he admitted, ducking his head and lowering his voice for fear someone might overhear him. “You know how I’ve always felt for you.”

Her eyes snapped up. Suddenly, she was livid. How presumptuous of him, to assume he knew her thoughts anymore. “How can I, when you’ve always left at the first sign of something between us?” she scolded. The wounded expression he wore gave her no pleasure, but it was necessary. 

Besides, he had wounded her, many times and for many years. No matter how she tried, she could never cut him out of her. He lived inside her, with every breath she took and every beat of her pulse. The pain of having him around in Camelot, though they could not be together, was unbearable; and she never truly got over the agony of losing him. It was merely something she learned to live with, as she could not learn to live without him.

She shook her head at him, unable to stop her emotions from spilling out now that she started. “I often wished you’d fought harder for me. Perhaps things would have been different for us.”

He whispered, “I did not see you as a prize to be won.”

“So, instead you made me feel as though I meant nothing to you?”

She must have been nothing to him. She had shown him nothing but love, and he returned it by walking away each time. Because of it, she’d become convinced her feelings weren’t reciprocated in the same intensity. She decided to stop wasting her affections on him, especially when there was another who returned her love.

Arthur had changed the rules of the kingdom for her. He could have lost his place on the throne, but he risked it anyway. For her. When, in the end, all Lancelot ever did was break her heart.

Why, then, did it flutter every time she was around him?

“You mean everything,” he told her with force, but they were just words. Not actions. “I—I thought you’d be happier with Arthur.”

And there it was, his reason for abandoning her. _Her_ happiness? No. He just feared rejection. He never even gave her the opportunity to chose for herself.

Trying to control her anger and sadness, she said plainly, “That is for _me_ to decide.”

She realised her word choice too late. He heard it, too, by the shock on his face. 

“ _Was_ for me to decide,” she corrected, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the despondence in his expression. She could not look at him anymore. She started away to her room.

However, she stopped when he said carefully, “You think it’s too late? What if it isn’t?” 

Yes, he certainly knew some secret he would not tell her. She would not press. It wasn’t worth it.

She forced herself to say, “It’s been too late for a long time, Lancelot.” She could not convince herself it was the truth. He was alive again, as was she. Had they been given a second chance? 

“Do you wish for me to leave again?”

For a moment, she considered it. His absence would make things a lot less confusing, and it would allow her to focus on Morgana’s threat. But to know he was out there, lost in this new world, without her was too great to think about. She’d still feel him inside of her, no matter the distance.

She peered over her shoulder at him, shadowed in the doorway. “I have never wished that,” she whispered, hating the emotion in her voice. She left him standing there, knowing he wouldn’t follow.

 

///

 

The caravan of jeeps pulled up to the training facilities of the Neo Camp. When the car Morgana was in came to a halt, Malcolm quickly slid out of the driver’s seat and hustled around to open her door. She took the palm he offered and glided out. The back passengers doors opened, and out came Cyrus, Morgause, and Mordred.

Morgana flashed her sister a quick but meaningful look before turning her attention back to the camp. The jeeps were unloading their soldiers and weaponry, and more soldiers were flocking from the surrounding buildings to aid them. The hour was late, but the camp bustled with activity. News was already spreading of what Morgana had achieved in London. 

She held her breath, knowing the night wasn’t over yet. She had proven her power to the Neos that did not yet follow her, and she had set her trap for Arthur and Emrys. Now, there was only one last thing standing in her way.

That last thing was currently bounding up the stone steps to the facility.

“Brilliant!” Cyrus shouted, and bounced on his toes at the top of the steps. “What a show of power, my Lady!”

Morgause and Mordred rested at Morgana’s sides. “Yes, I believe it was,” Morgause agreed haughtily.

Cyrus paid her no mind. He waved his hands, signalling for everyone to stop what they were doing and pay attention. “Brothers and sisters, tonight, you witnessed the future of Britain,” he exclaimed. “It’s us! For months, I’ve been promising you someone whose power would lead us into the new world—.”

Mordred bristled slightly, and Morgana brushed his arm calmingly. She knew Cyrus hadn’t any faith in her before her return. Mordred alone had made her resurrection possible. All of this was his doing, and she would not forget that. Cyrus could take the credit for a moment, but he wouldn’t get another. 

“Finally, she has arrived!” Cyrus held his hand out to Morgana. She put on a sweet smile, the one she always wore when she stood beside Uther in the court of Camelot, and walked up the stairs to Cyrus’ side. “Tonight, my brothers and sisters, we welcome an ancient magic to our cause. We welcome the Old Religion, and it’s master—the Lady Morgana Pendragon!”

If he was expecting a round of applause, he was sorely disappointed. Three quarters of the crowd immediately genuflected upon hearing Morgana’s name. Morgana stood taller, looking upon her new subjects—her army. Those still standing peered around warily, and some hands flew to the hilts of their swords or to their guns. 

Morgana turned to Cyrus, who was far too moronic to be wary. He looked confused. “I appreciate your kind words, Nigel, but many here have already given me their devotion,” she said loud enough for the crowd to hear. “They’ve pledged their loyalty to me.” 

Cyrus’ confusion fell away, making room for anger that he tried to play off like a joke. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he laughed, and it turned Morgana’s smile genuine. She loved how easily intimidated he was. It was a shame that she couldn’t keep him around a bit longer. 

His temper grew hot as realisation overcame him. “These are _my_ soldiers! They follow _my_ vision!”

“And do you really think _you_ could lead them to this vision?” Morgana said, stepping closer into him. He had at least a foot on her, but he seemed to shrink. She scoffed. “You? With such limited power—and such little determination.”

At last, fear came to Cyrus’ eyes. Morgana would ensure it was the last emotion he ever felt.

He turned his head and picked Mordred out of the crowd. “You betrayed me!”

“I was never loyal to you,” Mordred asserted. “It was my plan all along to build an army for the Queen.”

“Long live the Queen!” the genuflected soldiers roared in unison.

The doors of the training facility banged open. Cenred emerged, followed by two-dozen soldiers. They spilled out of the building and onto the stairs, their weapons at the ready. From the training field, more of Morgana’s loyalists marched into the street, until they flanked the building on every side.

Those still loyal to Cyrus drew their weapons.

“Mordred and Morgause have been building a resistance in your ranks from the beginning—right under your nose,” Morgana told Cyrus. He was frozen before her. If she pushed him over, he would shatter. She pulled a mock-sympathetic face. “Oh, don’t worry, Nigel. You’ve done me a favour in gathering my troops for me. The Neo-Druids will still fight for the world you dreamt of, but they will be following a new leader.”

She added, because she wasn’t cruel, “You can join them, and see the new world _I_ will build. Or, you can die tonight.”

Her words spurred something inside of Cyrus. It was an instinct as old as the world: fight or flight. He chose the wrong one.

His desperate eyes flashed to those still on his side. “What are you waiting for!” he shouted, grasping on to hope even though he was severely outnumbered. “Kill them!”

Most of them stayed where they were, holding their weapons up in defence but too afraid to use them. They knew they would lose if it came to a fight. However, there was always one stupid enough to get the ball rolling. He charged forward, towards Malcolm, still knelt on the ground.

Malcolm stood up, unfazed by the soldier’s battle cry. The sword pierced through Malcolm’s gut, but he didn’t flinch.

The soldier gasped so loudly Morgana heard it. His eyes round and disbelieving, he backed away from Malcolm, leaving his sword sticking through him. Malcolm grabbed the hilt and pulled it from him, covered in his blood. He glared at the soldier and shrugged. “Ow?" 

He charged forward, and killed the man with his own sword. The soldier died with a cry. 

All others still against her began to quake and back away. 

“How—?” Cyrus began, and Morgana wouldn’t let him finish. She was tired of him breathing in her presence. 

“The Cup of Life does more than just resurrect people from the dead,” Morgana told him. “I’ve offered them eternal life.” She looked back at the crowd and annunciated, “Join me—and not only will we build a world free from fear, but we will reap its rewards forever!”

She stepped away from Cyrus. Immediately, her soldiers came forward and contained him at the arms. He struggled to no avail.

“Kill him,” Morgana ordered, “and kill anyone who gets in your way!”

At once, the crowd erupted. Some still tried to resist, but they were cut down easily. Cyrus was dragged back into the street. He was shouting the entire time, ordering the soldiers to stop. When that failed, he begged. His words went unheard. He was forced to his knees.

Morgana watched as Malcolm shoved through the masses to Cyrus and lifted his sword. He brought it down on the back of Cyrus’ neck. The soldiers cheered. 

In the chaos, she spotted Mordred. As though he could feel her gaze, he met it, his own eyes hard and determined. She nodded to him, and he returned the gesture.

Proclamations of _Long Live the Queen_ filled the night sky until they reached the stars.

 

///

 

The next morning, a pounding at the door woke Arthur up. He winced in the light pouring through the cracks in the curtains. At first, he didn’t know what had woken him—just that he was conscious, ripped violently from sleep.

When the knocking sounded again, he grunted and let his face fall back into his pillow. Next to him, Merlin shuffled, but did nothing more.

Arthur didn’t know what time it was, but it felt early, despite how bright the light was through the curtains. He supposed that’s what happened when one fell asleep at sunrise.

Another knock, more urgent than the last. 

Knowing Merlin was unlikely to get up, Arthur reluctantly heaved out bed and shuffled into the main room. The hard wood floors were like ice under his feet, and the air sent a shiver down his spine. The heat must have been out again. _Damn_. The factory wasn’t used to heating so many rooms anymore—if it ever could.

Arthur had a hard time believing anything in the building ever worked properly.

“I’m coming!” he scolded the door when another knock assaulted it.

As soon as he turned the knob, Wallace pushed through, slamming the door into Arthur’s toe. It caused a brutal spike of pain that quickly subsided into a numb thudding. Despite Arthur’s howl, Wallace brisked past and made directly for the coffee table.

“You see the news bulletin yet?” he said, shuffling around some mugs, apparently looking for something.

“No,” Arthur said through his teeth, and let the door slam closed. He was careful to keep his extremities far away from it. “Care to tell me what the f—?”

Wallace was turning over the sofa cushions with complete abandon. “It’s been playing on repeat all morning—Jesus, where’s your remote?” He didn’t wait for an answer before giving up and going to the telly. He turned it on manually, and the picture scrambled into life.

Wallace stood back and folded his arms across his chest, his fingers tapping wildly against his elbow as he watched the screen.

The usual reporter was sitting at the news desk, speaking into the camera. “Late last night, after a suspected Neo-Druid attack on Maudsley Hospital in Southwark, where forty-three patients and members of staff were killed, the organization’s leader, Nigel Cyrus, has been reported dead.”

Arthur’s full attention automatically went to the screen. His eyes flickered to Wallace, trying to gauge whether or not the report was true, but Wallace gave nothing away.

“His death seems to be the result of a mutiny in the Neo-Druid base in York,” the reporter continued. “An unconfirmed number of his troops also died in the rebellion. The Neo-Druid’s new leader has yet to be identified, but she is thought to be the one behind last night’s attack on the hospital. In the hours after Cyrus’ death, thousands of Neo’s rallied behind their new leader in every major city in the provinces, including right here in London. Might I warn you, the following footage is graphic.”

The video cut to shaky, grainy footage of people cheering and marching through the streets. It looked like a riot. Carriages and rubbish bins were lit up like torches, and some innocent people were bloodied and being dragged through the streets. The remainder of Parliament Palace was a silhouette in the background. 

One man, tall with dark hair and a sword at his side, climbed up onto the barrier on the bridge. He pulled something out of the sack clutched in his fist. The crowd roared. Arthur gaped when he realised what it was.

A severed head, clutched at the bald skull. Nigel Cyrus’ head.

The reporter was on screen again. “The city of London is on high alert, and police are preparing for the possibility of another attack. Commissioner Basil Wallace has issued a curfew while these events are underway. Everyone is asked to remain inside their homes after nine PM, lasting until five o’clock the following morning. Anyone found on the streets between these times is subject to arrest and interrogation. If you have any information or inquiries, please contact your local police precinct immediately.”

Wallace leaned into the television and turned the power off. Arthur’s heart sputtered. He needed more information. He needed to know exactly what happened—and how Morgana had gained power so quickly. The room started spinning. He sat down heavily on the edge of the coffee table.

“I was up all night trying to break up these riots,” Wallace told him. “The Hammurabis came out, too, lookin’ for a fight.” The Order of Hammurabi was a small but effective anti-magic organization in Britain. They were terrorists in their own right. “The Neos were parading through the streets singing _God Save the Queen_!” 

Arthur’s gaze snapped up to meet him. “It’s Morgana.”

“I kinda figured.” 

Saying it aloud spurred Arthur into action. He couldn’t just sit around while things got worse. Morgana was his responsibility. She’d already tried to destroy Camelot; he couldn’t allow her to do the same now. 

He jumped up. “What other news do you have? What are you not telling the public?”

Wallace scoffed. “What you heard is all we know. That’s why I’m here. Figured you’d have more knowledge on this than me since she’s, ya know, your sister and whatever.”

Arthur tried to think of anything that could help. He came up empty. “Have you told your uncle who she is yet?” he asked instead.

“Like he’d believe me.”

“Make him believe you! He must know!”

“Well, I’m happy you feel that way,” Wallace told him. He came a little closer, as though about to divulge a secret. “Remember when you asked me to get you a meeting with him?” Arthur nodded. “Well, he kept blowin’ me off. Didn’t seem too interested. Until all this happened.”

Arthur’s breath caught, half in hope and half in dread.

“I told him you might have some information on the new Neo leader,” said Wallace. “He wants to meet with you—all of you—tonight.”

“Tonight?” Arthur repeated, already trying to fathom out what he would say. Nothing was more important than this meeting.

“For dinner—eight o’clock. It’s all the time he has open today.”

Arthur steeled the nerves in his gut and nodded. It had been so long since he’d spoken about matters of state. After all the council meetings he’d sat through, it should have been second nature. Now, he found he doubted himself. 

He had to banish those fears, and trust he’d be in his element once he knew what he was going to say. Merlin would help. He would be there. He would centre Arthur.

“You won’t be done until after curfew, so you’re all gonna have to stay for the night,” Wallace added. “Better pack a bag.” 

“Thank you, Wallace,” Arthur told him, and really meant it. 

“Don’t thank me until my uncle believes you,” said Wallace, causing some of Arthur’s bravado to crack like glass. He showed himself out.

When he was gone, Arthur cast another glance at the dark screen of the television, wondering if he should watch the bulletin again. There was no need. He knew what it had to say. But Merlin would want to see it. 

Without hesitating, he walked into the bedroom, but Merlin was nowhere in sight. “Merlin?” he called out, taking another sweeping look. No answer. Something in his stomach tugged, pulling his eyes towards the cupboard door.

Occasionally, Merlin would shut himself inside, seeking the solace of the dark and the quiet in the tight confines. The first time Arthur had found Merlin hiding in the cupboard was a month after he’d returned, after Arthur wandered off at the marketplace and gotten himself lost for twenty minutes. Merlin had been in there for hours, not making a sound, and Arthur panicked that Merlin had left him. The cupboard had been the last place he’d looked. 

Arthur wondered how Merlin could breathe in such a small space. It was like a coffin.

Silently praying that the cupboard was empty, Arthur tore open the door and looked down. He let out a heavy breath, half-acceptance and half-disappointment. Merlin was sitting on the floor, between the hanging shirts and trousers, hugging his knees and bowing his head. He didn’t bother looking up, though he did wince slightly at the sudden onslaught of brightness.

Arthur knew better than to yank Merlin to his feet in attempt to snap him out of it. (He’d tried it once and it didn’t end well.) Instead, he pushed some articles of clothing out of the way and sat down next to him. 

He never knew what to say whenever Merlin got like this. He second-guessed all his thoughts, and the ones that passed his lips always came out wrong. Instead, Arthur clapped a hand to Merlin’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. Merlin’s frame shook upon impact, but he remained silent. Arthur had no idea what to say to make things better, but there were other matters that needed to be discussed. Arthur hoped Merlin would rally himself upon hearing them. 

“Wallace came round,” he began, because Merlin certainly wouldn’t speak first. “His uncle has agreed to meet with us for dinner tonight. I think he’s scared. He wants information on Morgana, but I doubt he’ll believe what we have to say.” He rested his head against the wall and considered the meeting’s outcome. The Commissioner would probably think him insane.

“We have to convince him we’re real.” He scoffed at the notion. It should have been easy. He was a physical being with a pulse and warm skin. In the old world, everyone knew him as nothing more. However, in this world, he was a work of fiction. He’d been made into something greater than what he really was: a legend. And thus, it’d be almost impossible to convince anyone he was a man, too.

“I’ve no idea how to do that.” He rolled his head against the wall towards Merlin, who only stared blankly forward. All colour was drained of his skin. The only movements he made were infrequent blinks. For a moment, Arthur watched his long lashes sweep up and down as though in slow motion.

He needed Merlin’s help. He needed Merlin to come back to himself. If Merlin didn’t accompany him to the dinner, Arthur would be lost.

“You convinced Wallace. You can do the same with his uncle, I know it,” Arthur tried. He let it hang between them, an unspoken question. Merlin _had_ to snap out of it.

When Merlin finally spoke, his voice croaked with what might have been either disuse or dehydration. It was hard to say, when it could have been either—or both. He’d been awake, curled into himself and shaking, until the early hours of the morning; and he hadn’t spoken since they’d escaped the hospital.

“I almost lost you.”

Arthur took in a hissing breath and tore his eyes away. He tried very hard not to be curt, but Morgana was alive and terrorizing Britain. Arthur had no idea what else she had in motion. He had to act, not dwell on things that _almost_ happened, according to Merlin. 

“You _will_ lose me if Morgana wins. That’s why we must stop her,” Arthur reminded him. “For that, we need support and strength behind us. As you won’t let me forget, I’m no longer king. We need someone with authority on our side if we wish to prevail.”

Merlin closed his eyes, like he was already accepting defeat.

Arthur balled his fists. Merlin wasn’t allowed to give up. Arthur couldn’t defeat Morgana without him. It had nothing to do with Merlin’s magic. He was the only one who truly gave Arthur the strength he needed to overcome his own doubts. If Merlin gave up, they’d lost already.

Arthur tried to tell himself that Merlin would shake his mood, but he couldn’t convince himself. Whenever Merlin got like this, Arthur feared he would never recover. He always had, and Arthur reasoned this time should be no different. But what if it was?

“For god’s sake, Merlin, you didn’t lose me. You were never going to. I had it under control.”

He’d never even found Morgana or his father. They were gone by the time he made it to the hospital’s grounds. He’d never been in any danger.

Merlin’s eyes remained closed and unmoving. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he’d fallen asleep. 

“I’m right here. I’m not dead, and you’ll make sure I get to a ripe old age before I _do_ die.” It was Merlin’s mission to keep Arthur alive for as long as he could, but he couldn’t succeed forever. Arthur wasn’t immortal like he was. One day, he would die, and there was nothing Merlin could do to save him, despite all his magic. But that was a long way away, and Arthur didn’t fear it. 

After all, what was death? In Arthur’s experience, it was nothing. It wasn’t happy or sad, bad or good. There was no consciousness. There wasn’t anything. Perhaps it had been different for him because he was meant to return. Perhaps he was put into some deep hibernation, while other souls went to an afterlife where everything was peaceful and perfect. But none of the others seemed to remember anything from their time there. Either way, it was nothingness or heaven, and therefore nothing to fear.

What was death? Death was easy. It was the life set out before them that was difficult, but Arthur refused to let it get the better of them. Right now, Merlin was letting it do just that. 

Merlin must have feared death, but not his own. Never his own, and not just because it couldn’t happen to him. His life wasn’t a precious thing to him, like Arthur’s was.

“When that day comes, you’d better not be like this for the rest of eternity,” Arthur ordered sternly.

At last, Merlin’s eyes swept open. He looked at Arthur, jaw slack and brows inquisitive. “What?” he whispered in a voice so low it was almost a breath. His cracked lips didn’t move with the word.

Arthur blinked. It was harder to be so commanding now that Merlin was looking at him. He rallied himself and sat up from the wall. “After I die—.”

Merlin was shaking his head in miniscule movements. “Arthur. I don’t plan on living past that day.”

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes. Merlin had no control over it. But the look on his face was so steadfast that it made Arthur’s stomach flutter uncomfortably. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin.” 

“I’m not.” He was so resigned. He blinked, and tear slipped down his cheek. “The day you die, I’m taking your sword and driving it through my chest.”

The closet suddenly became much smaller. Arthur felt dizzy. “Don’t say things like that,” he heard himself say, his tone angrier than he felt. He didn’t know what he was feeling.

“It’s true.”

“No it isn’t, Merlin! Stop it now!” Arthur couldn’t picture the world without Merlin in it. It wouldn’t be right.

Merlin let out a rattling breath and stared down at his knees again. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do it today.” 

Like a reflex, Arthur’s body lurched. He’d throw his sword into the Thames before he let Merlin near it. At once, he forgot about Morgana and the meeting with the Commissioner; he forgot about Britain and his men and destiny. All of it was meaningless. He’d give it all up for Merlin without a second thought. 

Arthur didn’t know what to do. He panicked, not even considering that this was a false alarm. He settled, but only slightly, when Merlin swallowed hard in guilt and whispered, “I’m not—I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped even more. “I’m tired, Arthur.” His voice was wet now, and colour was returning to his face in blotchy red. “The day you died, it felt like I’d jumped, and I’ve been falling ever since. I’ve been falling for so long. I just want to hit the ground already. I can’t do it without you again, Arthur, especially if I know you’re not coming back this time. I won’t.” 

He looked back at Arthur, as afraid as a hunted fox and as small as a broken bird. His lashes were lined with drops. “Please don’t make me,” he pleaded.

Right away, Arthur knew he had the power to ensure Merlin’s life after his own passed. It would only take a word, and Merlin would do as he was told. He’d never broken a promise to Arthur. He never would.

Arthur wanted so badly to give him the command, but he stopped himself. Whatever the outcome, it had to be Merlin’s decision. No matter how resolute he was now, perhaps one day he’d change his mind. After all, it _was_ a long way away, and the command wasn’t Arthur’s to give. 

Merlin’s life was Arthur’s. His death should be his own. Arthur owed him at least that much. 

Arthur stood up and offered his hand to Merlin. “Come on,” he said, trying to push bravado into his voice.

Merlin didn’t look like he wanted to move, but he trusted Arthur. He allowed himself to be pulled up, and he was heavier than usual. Arthur brought him to bed and curled up behind him, keeping their bodies close. He reached for Merlin’s hand on the mattress and entwined their fingers.

Across the bed, Arthur watched the numbers on the clock flick by for close to twenty minutes. In that time, Merlin’s breath slowed and steadied, and Arthur was fairly certain he’d fallen asleep. Arthur envied him for at least that much. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, between Merlin’s tossing and turning and thoughts of Morgana and Uther plaguing his mind.

There was no telling what Morgana was putting their father through, how she was causing him to suffer. In Camelot, Morgana needn’t lay a finger on Uther to torture him; all she had to do was leave. It devastated Uther, her betrayal. In a way, Arthur envied her, too. He was pretty sure Uther would have powered through had Arthur been in Morgana’s place.

But that didn’t mean Arthur would leave him now. He would rescue his father somehow. Morgana may have eluded him in the hospital, but she wouldn’t be able to forever, especially if Arthur had the force of London’s authorities behind him . . .

Assuming Commissioner Wallace didn’t think him a raving lunatic, as he most likely would.

Arthur exhaled heavily. He needed to plan out what he was going to say to the Commissioner. However, Arthur’s mind blanked whenever he tried to mentally draft his talking points. It would have been so much easier if he could get Merlin’s advice on the matter, but Merlin wasn’t in the state to give anyone any guidance. 

After another half hour, Arthur carefully extracted himself from Merlin. Merlin shuffled a little in sleep, but didn’t wake up. Part of Arthur was disappointed by that. He wished Merlin would come back to himself, to sleep off his sadness and wake up renewed.

Arthur had half a mind to call Merlin useless, but he knew that wasn’t fair. He was the useless one at the moment: unable to help his father, unable to stop Morgana and Mordred, unable to make Merlin happy, unable to come up with anything he wanted to say to the bloody Commissioner.

He had to think fast, and to be sure. The future hinged on that night.

Deciding not to be idle, he left the bedroom and headed out of the flat altogether. He headed downstairs, to the flat Percival, Gwaine, and Leon shared, and found Gwaine sitting at the kitchen counter. A plate of toast and beans sat in front of him, but he seemed repulsed by the notion of food. It remained untouched while he clutched onto the empty glass next to the plate. Arthur didn’t pause to wonder what had been in the glass before.

“Gwaine,” he said, catching his attention. Gwaine peered up at him, and pushed a smile. It was fake, as many of Gwaine’s grins were over the years, but never as striking as this one. His eyes were bruised with sleeplessness, almost as dark as the healing discolouration around his neck.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Gwaine said, pushing his plate and glass away and standing up. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. That’s exactly what you can do,” Arthur told him, and Gwaine seemed puzzled, so Arthur explained, “We’re to meet Commissioner Wallace tonight for dinner. After what happened last night, there’s a curfew. We won’t be home until tomorrow morning. I want you to stay behind.”

Gwaine straightened out a bit, trying to look tough, but he joked, “Ah, I appreciate it, Arthur, but I think I can manage some dinner.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed to the uneaten breakfast, but didn’t mention it. “That’s not the reason I want you to stay behind,” Arthur told him, even though it was part of the reason. Gwaine was still recovering from Merlin’s magic, and needed to heal. Another reason Arthur wanted him to stay at the factory was because Arthur couldn’t be distracted by Gwaine’s disposition. He could not afford to think of Merlin turning on one of their own so dangerously, so easily, so quickly. He was not like the sorcerers Uther had warned Arthur about all his life; but, last night, he had come close. Arthur couldn’t dwell on that. He couldn’t even think of it on the peripherals of his mind.

The third and most prominent reason was, “Merlin.”

Arthur pretended he didn’t see Gwaine clamp his jaw.

“He’s staying back, too,” Arthur admitted, though he hated it. Merlin should have been accompanying him. 

A look of concerned passed over Gwaine’s brows. “Why, is he okay?”

Arthur waved it away. He couldn’t tell Gwaine the truth about Merlin’s depression. It would make Merlin look weak and unreliable. “He’s fine.” He _would_ be fine. He _had_ to be fine. Until then, Arthur could not wait for him. That night was too important. “I just need you to look after him.”

For a moment, Gwaine looked like he was going to ask a question, or to argue, or to refuse. He did neither. He nodded, accepting. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him.

Next, Arthur went back upstairs and made for Gwen’s flat. If Merlin wouldn’t help him come up with ideas on what to say to the Commissioner, Gwen would. After all, she always did know exactly what to say.


	8. Chapter 8

The entire day went by and Merlin didn’t see anyone. He heard them milling about downstairs and coming in and out of the flat to report to Arthur. Their voices would drop and reverberate off the ceilings as they whispered, “How’s he doing?”

“Fine,” Arthur would always answer curtly, and each time Merlin knew how he’d let Arthur down. 

_Fine_. Merlin knew he wasn’t fine, just as he knew Arthur wasn’t. He could feel Arthur’s hostility spike whenever someone asked the question. He was nervous, and angry, but Merlin couldn’t bring himself to help. He wanted to.

But he wanted the world to stop screaming at him, too. Every ounce of magic was snapping against the windows like the heat of summer. It suffocated him, and reminded him of how much he’d lost.

And how much he could lose again. 

If he didn’t get out of bed and stop it, history would repeat itself. But what good could he do? He’d been the one who’d ruined it all the last time. He’d ruin it again. It was best if he stayed out of it completely. Arthur would be better off without him.

“He needs you,” Balinor said in the late afternoon, standing at the edge of the bed. “Get up, son. Control the magic. Do not let it control you.”

“I can’t,” Merlin had responded, his voice full and cracking. He was too tired to try.

“There will be time for sleep later.”

He was wrong. There was never time for sleep. Merlin had put it off for far too long.

He hardly noticed the light fading around him. Arthur and the others would be leaving soon. Merlin tried to get up, to muster himself into action. Just when he thought he was on the cusp of it, the door opened.

He didn’t see who had come in. His back was to the door. It wasn’t Arthur, though. That much, he knew. 

“Merlin?” Gaius’ tentative tone asked. All Merlin’s will to move fell away. He didn’t know why he did it, but he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. His stomach dropped, and he tried so hard to silence his breathing that had suddenly quickened with fright. He wanted to hide, as he’d been hiding all day. He wished he could burrow away like an animal.

If he tried hard enough, maybe he could turn invisible. But what was the point now?

Gaius wasn’t deterred by his silence. He came closer to the bed until the side of the mattress dipped.

“Are you awake, my boy? We are leaving very soon.”

There was a pause. Merlin didn’t dare answer. He heard Gaius breathe heavily, almost in acceptance.

“Arthur needs you, Merlin. You know this. He would feel a lot better about tonight with you at his side,” Gaius said, giving one last attempt. It gave Merlin no confidence. In fact, his heartache strengthened.

So, Arthur wasn’t coming before he left? He had asked Gaius to talk to Merlin. He had passed Merlin along to someone else, like deadweight that had grown too tedious to bear any longer. 

He wished Gaius would just leave. He wanted to be in an empty building again. He wanted only the ghosts to keep him safe.

But Gaius didn’t leave. He remained for a long time in silence before finally saying, “I am sorry for what I said about your relationship to Arthur.” He sounded heavy and sad. Merlin remembered how difficult it was for him to admit his wrongdoings. “I know how much you care for him, and how he feels for you. You know I’ve only ever wanted the best for the both of you, Merlin. But it was not my place to comment. Perhaps it may have been once, but . . .”

Another pause. For the first time that day, Merlin felt his pulse. 

“I know you’ve been through much since we last met—more than I could possibly imagine,” whispered Gaius. “You must understand, I still see you as that boy from Ealdor who walked into my chambers all those years ago. You always needed my guidance in those days, Merlin. I must come to terms with the fact that this is no longer the case. I know I’m of little use to you now. I believe you haven’t needed me for a very long time.”

Merlin felt something wet and warm slide down his cheek to the pillow.

_I’ll always need you_ , he wanted to say. He didn’t know why he kept it inside. If only Gaius knew just how much Merlin had needed him over the centuries.

“But I hope you can still see me as your friend.”

Gaius’ hand rested on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin couldn’t remember anything that had ever comforted him more. Why, then, was he shivering cold? 

“You are more precious to me than anything in this world, my b— _Merlin_ ,” he corrected quickly. His voice turned sombre and soft again as he continued, “I love you, no matter how you’ve changed.”

Merlin wanted to respond so badly, but he couldn’t think of a single word to say. Gaius waited for close to a minute before the pressure of his palm slipped away, and the dip in the bed evened out. 

Merlin heard him shuffle out of the room, and close the bedroom door behind him.

At last, Merlin let out the shudder he’d been holding in.

 

///

 

The government car that had picked them up at the factory brought them to an enormous building surrounded by an elegant black and golden fence. As they proceeded into the drive, Gwen surveyed the building with reverence. It was perhaps larger than Camelot’s citadel had been, but appeared to be made of similar stone. However, the engravings of this place were more elaborate, and it lacked any watchtowers Gwen could see.

When they came to a halt, Arthur slid out of the car. Gwen followed him, and took the hand he offered her as her feet hit the red brick drive. She smiled at him thankfully and paced away from the car to let the others out. As her hand slipped out of his, she gazed up again at the columns and grand windows of the building before her. 

She had seen many palaces in her life. This wasn’t like any she had come across before, but reasoned it must be the modern equivalent. In truth, she wasn’t certain nobility still lived in castles anymore, or if any existed, but this building came rather close. It gave off the air of stature and wealth, a symbol of government.

The driver pulled away, and they took that as their cue to go inside. Once they were halfway to the entrance, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged, stout man in a polished black suit. “Good evening sirs, madam,” the butler said, nodding pointedly to Gwen as he addressed her. He pulled the door open wider to grant them access. 

On the other side, a magnificent chamber stood before them. Solid gold trimmings adorned the impossibly white walls and ceiling. On two sides, steps led up to other rooms; on the third, a flight led to a grand staircase. Paintings and statues stood out amongst the décor. Perhaps the greatest statement was the carpet. It was a deep, rich red, and the colour seemed to permeate the entire room. It overwhelmed Gwen’s senses until she could feel it all around her and taste in on her tongue. 

Three guards came forward, their swords a veiled warning as they swung from their sides. 

“Do forgive the security measure, but we must check you for weapons,” the butler told them. 

Gwen saw Arthur eyeing the guards’ swords. The knights looked defensive, and no doubt felt vulnerable without their blades, too.

“I assure you, we left them behind,” Arthur said. 

“I’m afraid it’s protocol, sir,” the butler insisted. 

Arthur seemed uncomfortable with it, and Gwen didn’t like it, either. In their time, it was expected that noble or royal guests carry a ceremonial sword with them at state functions. To be searched for weapons and being asked to remove them was considered an insult, and easily aroused suspicion that the meeting was a trap. 

However, Arthur nodded curtly, and the guards pat each of them down in turn. The female guard searched Gwen by having her spread her arms and legs. Gwen almost scolded the intrusion when the guard’s hands became a bit too intimate, but she refrained, save for a quick glare.

They all seemed to pass the test, thankfully. Gwen half expected one of them to be carrying a concealed dagger. (Her own dagger, the one Arthur had gifted to her, was packed away in her overnight bag. She assumed Arthur had done the same.)

“Very good,” said the butler. “If you will all follow me to the dining room, Commissioner Wallace is expecting your arrival.”

As they started moving, Arthur appeared at Gwen’s side and offered his arm. She hooked her elbow into his and followed the butler towards the grand stairwell. As she did, something buzzed at the back of her mind and made her small hairs stand on end. The air around her no longer felt empty, but filled to the brim with static, alive and suffocating. 

Lancelot was watching them, even if he tried not to. He would attempt to avert his gaze, but he would always be unsuccessful. Gwen did not know if this was simply a product of her imagination, or a slight hope that he was jealous, but she did not turn around to confirm it. She kept in stride with Arthur, holding her chin high and squaring her shoulders, just as she had done many times before. 

The reminder of normalcy made something warm bloom in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked whether Arthur was experiencing it, too. His expression, however, was very far away. Whenever they passed a window, his gaze snapped to it, as though he was expecting to find something just outside. Sometimes, the movement was so abrupt that it made Gwen look, too, and wonder if Arthur had found what he was looking for. All she ever saw was an empty, square courtyard in the centre of the building.

The overpowering red filled up the entire palace, the dining hall included. The crimson carpets broke against the edge of the scarlet walls; velvet ruby curtains were drawn against the floor to ceiling windows to keep out the night; the cushions of the chairs along the impressively long, polished table were of the same deep colour. It stained reflections in the gold trimmings on the mirrors and fireplace, the chandeliers, and the solid frames around the oil portraits.

Two men were standing on the opposite end of the table: Wallace, and the man who must have been the Commissioner. He had a hooked nose and a tall stature, but those were perhaps the only physical qualities he shared with his nephew. His hair was grey but thick, and his brow was heavy above brown eyes. His build must have once been sturdy, but some of it was lost to age. The butt of a cigarette rested between two fingers, and he brought it to his lips for a final puff before smashing it in the ashtray on a nearby end table. 

Both uncle and nephew turned away from their hushed conversation when the group entered the room.

“Hello, hello!” the Commissioner expressed jovially as he trekked down the long straight beside the table, bringing a stale, putrid stench with him that Gwen reasoned must have come from whatever he was smoking. It was ghastly, but she did her best not to turn her nose up at it.

Wallace was in tow of his uncle, searching the group for a face he did not see. Arthur let go of Gwen’s arm and they, along with Gaius, met the two men halfway. 

“Arthur, is it?” said the Commissioner as he and Arthur shook hands.

“Yes,” said Arthur with the same tone he had always used on noblemen. Gwen recalled it instantly—the strength behind it, the determination, the flush of power. It had always made her so proud of him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

The Commissioner tutted. “I should be the one thanking you.” He gestured to Wallace, and his face turned into a stern mask of business. “David tells me you have information on the Neo-Druid’s new leader. I’m eager to hear about her. Why don’t we all take a seat? Am I right in thinking dinner is almost ready, Mr. Ainsworth?” 

Gwen swivelled her neck to the butler behind her. He stood ramrod straight and folded his hands behind his back. “It will be out shortly. Is there anything else you require, sir?”

“No, no, thank you. Just make sure their luggage gets to the right rooms,” the Commissioner said, flapping his hands, and Ainsworth took his leave. “Sit, everyone!”

The group dispersed, all of them looking for a seat to fill. In the meantime, Gwen noticed Wallace pull Arthur in close and say something in a harsh whisper. Arthur huffed back impatiently, and Wallace’s face skewed into horror. His lips formed a distinct phrase: _What the fuck_?

Gwen saw no more. She was distracted by the Commissioner coming up to her and saying, “You, dear, what’s your name?” His breath was just as stale smelling as his clothes.

Gwen tried not to bristle, and tried very hard not to be offended by the familiar pet name. She put on her best stately smile and offered her hand. The Commissioner shook it, as he had Arthur’s, when she was expecting a kiss. It threw her slightly, but she recovered quickly enough to say, “Guinevere.” Not Gwen. It was a queenly habit when meeting new dignitaries, and a soft reminder that they were not, in fact, familiar. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely home.” 

“Home? Oh no! Lord, can you imagine the public uproar if it was just me in here, spending civilian taxes to live in this place?” the Commissioner laughed. “No, no, dear, the palace’s only function anymore is for meetings and housing when officials from the other provinces visit.”

_Palace_. She had been right. It wasn’t surprising, but she wished she knew what had happened to the royals that once lived in it. Perhaps they had died in the War.

“David told me we would be needing a number of rooms for tonight, and this is the only place big enough,” he explained. “Now, come on. Sit near me, Guinevere.”

She hummed courteously and followed him to the table, happy to see the end seat had been reserved for the Commissioner. Wallace sat to his left and Arthur to his right, acting as a buffer between the Commissioner and the empty chair next to Arthur. Gwen sat on the soft cushion and nodded to Gaius on her other side. Across from her was Lancelot, who actively did not meet her eyes. She cleared her throat, unaware that this dinner could get anymore uncomfortable than it had already proven to be. 

But, she supposed, the night was young.

The Commissioner sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Anyone?” he offered, holding it out the group. Most of them declined; however, Percival and Elyan shrugged and accepted. They notoriously would try anything once. If Gwaine were present, he would have taken one, too.

Gwaine, who would try anything twice.

When he gestured to Gwen, she held up her hand politely and shook her head. She had no intention of smelling so poorly. The smell was insidious. It lingered in the air, and she never became accustom to it. 

The Commissioner sat back and said lightly, “Probably for the best. I know they say these things can kill you, but—.”

Gwen blanched, completely taken off guard. She couldn’t find a single reason why anyone would do such a thing. Across the table, Percival and Elyan gaped, holding the things between their fingers and searching franticly for somewhere to set it down before it went off like a bomb. 

Gaius took them and began inspecting them with intense curiosity. 

“I’ve been trying to quit for at least twenty years now,” the Commissioner went on, puffing nonchalantly. “I tried those patches for awhile when you could still get them. What a bunch of malarkey they were! Didn’t work one bit!” 

“You only tried them for a day,” Wallace pointedly reminded him.

“Yes, but I believe that was ample time.”

A door opened, and three servers came through pushing a trolley with platters of chicken and vegetables on them. They set them on the table, and the Commissioner thanked them before they disappeared once more.

“Dig in!”

Gwen felt badly taking part in such a feast when so many in the city were living in poverty. When she was queen, she had always done her best to ensure all the citizens of Camelot had enough food for their families. It was an impossible task, and she didn’t always succeed, but in trying times she happily donated the store from the castle’s kitchens. She hoped the Commissioner was just as charitable. 

Although, the food was much better than anything she’d eaten since her return. Most of the food Merlin gave them tasted chalky or artificial. In the palace, the chicken tasted as it should and the vegetables were bright and sweet.

It must have struck a nerve with Arthur, because he dropped his shoulders around the first bite as though immensely savouring the taste. Then, his eyes cut into Wallace before looking at the Commissioner. “It’s nice to have something that wasn’t grown in a lab,” he said, his tone slightly scathing. 

The Commissioner sighed and said, “I know what you’re thinking. But, I promise, I’m not hording all the best food for the police. Everything on your plate came from Anglia. Minister Simmons and myself are attempting to undergo a new agriculture scheme so the people of our provinces don’t have to rely on the Neos for food.”

It piqued Gwen’s interest. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge the Commissioner. “Have you much success?”

A shadow passed over Commissioner’s expression, telling her the scheme was, so far, lacklustre. However, he did not admit it. “I can’t discuss it any further at this time, I’m afraid.” That excuse had been a political scapegoat since the beginning of organised government, it seemed. 

“And we’re here to discuss another matter,” Arthur said, though Gwen could tell he was itching to know more about the agriculture scheme. No doubt, he would drill Wallace about it later. As much as Arthur had a mind for war and defence tactics, his heart has always been with the wellbeing of the civilians.

All lightheartedness had gone from the Commissioner’s face. He reminded Gwen now of every ruler she had ever met while discussing a treaty. “Yes, the Neos’ mysterious new leader.”

“She’s no mystery, I assure you,” said Arthur. “Her name is Morgana.”

It was a flash—barely there, but Gwen caught it. The Commissioner’s eyes found his nephew, and they looked sceptical. “Morgana, you say?” he murmured, and looked from Arthur to Gwen as though he had just puzzled something out.

Arthur faltered slightly. “Yes. She’s a powerful sorceress.”

“Of what? The Wiccan, like Cyrus was?” 

“The Old Religion, Commissioner,” Gaius offered, making the Commissioner’s face skew into confusion.

“The what? I’ve never heard of that kind of magic. Is it new?”

“Quite on the contrary,” Gaius explained. “It is the oldest and strongest form of magic, of which all other forms derive their power. Many believe the Old Religion is what holds the fabric of this world together.” 

The Commissioner looked at Wallace again and said, “Sounds to me like some kind of fairytale.” 

“It isn’t,” Arthur ensured. “Morgana is a High Priestess. With her, she has two others skilled in the Old Religion. And we believe we know what they are planning.” 

The Commissioner sat back and gestured for him to go on.

“The recent attack at the hospital wasn’t like the others. I— _we_ —were there _._ We saw the whole thing. Morgana has created a weapon. It’s designed only to target those who do not practice magic.”

The Commissioner hummed impatiently. “I see. And how do you know so much about this? David never told me what province’s government you’re affiliated with. Darby’s? Are you lot some kind of military intelligence?” 

Arthur shook his head. “No. I know this because . . .” He paused, but never out of shame. No matter what Morgana did, Arthur would never be ashamed of his familial ties to her. He never saw her bad deeds as a reflection on himself. Rather, he paused because he was worried the Commissioner wouldn’t believe the tale that was about to unfold. Gwen feared it, too, but she attempted to push as much resolve into the empty space between them.

It seemed to help, because he collected himself and continued, “Morgana is my sister by my father, who she’s currently keeping prisoner—most likely at the Neo base in York. I make it my bid to rescue him. I believe you and I can help one another.” 

“How’s that?”

“You have the manpower. I have the knowledge of Morgana and her allies.”

The Commissioner did not scoff exactly, but there was something about his face that said he wanted to. “Arthur, I can’t just lead my men into Neo territory, especially if this Morgana is as powerful as you say. How are we expected to defeat her?”

“We’ve done it before.”

Now, the Commissioner looked truly wary. He asked, “When? I’ve never heard of this woman. She’s seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Where has she held power before?”

Arthur went very still. The entire room did. Gwen tried to remind herself to breathe, but her lungs were paying her no mind. Finally, the inevitable had come. 

“In our time,” Arthur said slowly, doing his best to keep the Commissioner’s gaze. “Over a thousand years ago. In Camelot.”

Everything went silent. The Commissioner stared back at Arthur with a measured glare.

When he finally spoke again, it was to Wallace, “Who the hell have you brought here? I don’t have time for this.” 

He looked as though he were about to get up. Gwen jumped, but Wallace got to him first. “Look, just hear ‘im out.”

“Hear him out?” the Commissioner echoed. “He’s obviously not in his right mind.” 

“I know how it sounds,” Arthur interjected, and the Commissioner’s glare swept back to him. 

“I’m not convinced you do.” 

At his sides, Arthur’s hands curled into fists. Gwen wanted to reach out and touch him, to remind him she was still there. He was not alone. She dared not to, fearing it might make him look weak under the Commissioner’s scrutiny.

“I _wish_ I had some way to prove it to you,” he bit out.

Now, the Commissioner did actually scoff. “How? Are you going to pull a sword out of a stone?”

Frustration and embarrassment flushed Arthur’s ears, and Gwen knew she had to step in. Thinking quickly, she said, “A group of magic users has ruled over Britain for over a decade now. On top of that, ancient creatures of magic have run citizens out of their homes. What you once believed to be a farce is clearly true. What makes our claims so impossible?” 

“What you’re suggesting, young lady,” the Commissioner retorted, “is a fairytale man has returned from the dead.”

“People have created religions over such beliefs.” 

“And they are yet to pay off!”

“Uncle Baz,” Wallace cut in calmingly. He leaned in and fished for his uncle’s eyes. “I know it sounds crazy, but trust me. I’ve known these guys for a while now. Some of the things I’ve seen—I don’t even believe it myself sometimes.” 

“What things?” the Commissioner asked.

Apparently, Arthur found his voice again, and said, “The recent unexplained killings throughout the city. You’ve suspected the Neos, but you hadn’t any proof. Every victim was a part of a ritual in attempt to bring Morgana back. Her influence has been growing under your nose for months.”

“I’ve not been given any reports of this,” the Commissioner argued, as if that meant it hadn’t happened just because it wasn’t on paper.

“It’s true,” Wallace admitted. “I’ve been investigating it.”

The Commissioner’s neck snapped towards his nephew. “And you didn’t think to put this in your report?”

Wallace knew he was in trouble, but he played it with a scoff and a roll of his eyes, like a teenager who’d been caught sneaking out late without a truly decent excuse. Still, he gave one as though it was the best excuse in the world, “This is bigger than the Metropolitan Police Force can handle! I needed to—!” 

“Go rogue? For god’s sake, David! I’ve told you, police work is not like those silly films your father let you watch as a child!”

Gwen had no desire to sit through a family squabble. “Commissioner Wallace, if I may?” she began. It was clear they weren’t going to achieve his trust or his help over dinner. They had to be patient as he came to his own conclusion. “Wallace will provide you with any report of his investigations you require.”

Wallace raised a brow as though to say, _I will_? She shot him a look to silence him before he got the chance.

“In the meantime, I implore you to run your own inquiry into Morgana to verify all we’ve said about her weapon. She’s bound to use it again, sooner rather than later. I hope we can all work together before that time comes. Please, put your best men on it. You will see we’re telling the truth.” 

She knew the Commissioner would rise to the challenge, and she did not blame him for it. She would not want to take strangers’ claims for scripture at face value, either. She would want to first confirm for herself. They should allow the Commissioner the same option. 

Thankfully, the Commissioner didn’t dismiss her, but he did take a moment to make up his mind. Finally, he said, “Very well. Until then, not a word of this leaves this room. I will not have you spreading chaos around my city!”

“You have our word,” Arthur agreed.

“Very well,” the Commissioner said again, sounding more annoyed by the minute. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Leaving his food untouched, he marched from the room. 

Gwen let out a breath. It wasn’t relief. She had no reason to be relieved, after all. She was just happy some of the tension had followed the Commissioner out. Next to her, Arthur was feeling the same way.

“Well, that went as well as it could have,” she heard Elyan mutter.

In Gwen’s opinion, it had gone much better than she’d expected.

 

///

 

The bedroom door opened—slowly, tentatively. Gwaine peeked his head through with caution and peered around the room. When his eyes found Merlin’s, and he realised Merlin was awake, he froze for a moment. It was quick, just a flash before a small and apologetic smile pulled at his lips, but Merlin caught it.

He cringed in guilt and sadness.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” said Gwaine.

It was harder than it should have been, but Merlin dragged himself into a sitting position. “You didn’t,” he assured. He couldn’t look Gwaine in the eyes. He looked down at his lap, trying to form the words he wanted to say. Like, _I’m sorry_. Like, _You didn’t deserve it_. Like, _You were always a better friend to me than I was to you_. 

His lips moved infinitesimally, but no sounds came out. Finally, he managed only to muster in a small voice, “Gwaine—.”

The door creaked open a little wider. Gwaine must have realised it was okay to enter the room and that Merlin wasn’t going to go off on him again.

“No need,” he answered the unspoken apology. “All the years you’ve been waiting for the princess to show up, it’s no wonder you don’t want to lose him again.” 

Merlin’s eyes snapped up. Gwaine’s were big and round and innocent, but knowing. He always understood more than he ever let on, and Merlin was always grateful for that.

“That’s no excuse,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “You’re his friend, too. You don’t want harm to come to him, either.”

It had been Gwaine’s downfall, after all. Gwaine, the vagabond who abhorred nobility. Gwaine, the knight who died for his king. Gwaine was no more than a series of contradictions he somehow made concurrent. 

He perched himself on the edge of the bed. Like he had with Gaius, Merlin felt the mattress dip under his weight—sturdy and strong and real. He’d been so focused on Arthur, he’d forgotten to fully realise the rest of his friends had returned, too.

He’d said goodbye to them so long ago. Their presence now was unsettling in a way. It put his worldview off-kilter, but in the best way. His friends were back. Maybe this time around, he wouldn’t feel so lonely around them, now that he knew what true loneliness was.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Gwaine shrugged. “Same goes for you, you know?”

Merlin looked down again and blinked away the pressure in his eyes. “I know. There’s never been anyone I could count on more.” 

This seemed to warm Gwaine. His smile stretched wider, and his usual mischief flashed in his dark eyes. “You can count on me for one thing. Stay right there!”

Merlin furrowed his brows as Gwaine jumped up and rushed from the room. He returned a moment later clasping the neck of a scotch bottle. It was three-quarters of the way full and, as Gwaine brought it closer, Merlin saw a thick layer of dust caking the glass.

“Where on earth did you find that?” Merlin gaped.

Gwaine only shrugged again and plopped back down at the end of the bed. He crossed his legs beneath him. “Went rummaging around the building while you were asleep. Found this in one of the cabinets. It wasn’t alone, either. Someone who lived here had quite the collection.”

Merlin was humoured despite himself. “Do you even know what that is?”

“About to find out,” Gwaine answered nonchalantly. “Care to join me?” He unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Merlin was familiar with the burn of the scent, so it didn’t surprise him when Gwaine recoiled from it and let out an impressed sound. 

He took a swig and grimaced. His verdict was, “Not bad.”

Merlin chuckled in earnest, and in memory. “Leave it to you to find the alcohol.”

“Got you to smile, didn’t it?”

The revelation of it startled Merlin. He hadn’t noticed the pull of his cheeks or the strain of the twinkle in his eyes. They overcame him naturally thanks to Gwaine. It hadn’t been the first time, Merlin remembered, that Gwaine had put the mirth back into Merlin during trying times. Next, Merlin realised he was blushing.

Gwaine tipped the bottle to Merlin in offering. The liquor was strong with age and dry with heat as it slid down his throat. Merlin felt warmer instantly.

“Better keep it up, Merlin,” Gwaine said, referring to his grin. “You shouldn’t be so caught up on the negatives. I’m sure there’s a happy memory somewhere in there.”

Merlin pulled a face, trying to pinpoint a good time in his long life. There were many, he knew, but they were all clouded now. He couldn’t shake the shadows cast over them in that moment. “What makes you so sure?” 

Gwaine took back the bottle and drank. After a stinging breath, he said, “Because you’re you. You always find a way to look on the bright side.” 

Maybe he used to when Gwaine had known him. Now, Merlin wasn’t sure he knew how. 

“Tell me a good memory,” Gwaine pushed. “I’ve got one.” 

“Then, you go first.”

Gwaine didn’t protest. In fact, he seemed eager to relive the past. “Remember that time we broke into Gaius’ poppies and snuck up to the watchtower to stargaze?”

The bark of laughter Merlin let out was unexpected to him, but it was the exact reaction Gwaine had been fishing for. Merlin _did_ remember that night. He hadn’t until that moment, but suddenly the chill of the winter winds on top of the tower came to mind. The blanket of white stars piercing the midnight sky was on the forefront of his memory. He and Gwaine had bundled themselves in fur blankets and huddled together as they watched the universe turn over their heads. 

“We made up our own constellations,” Merlin recalled. The pictures they’d drawn in the sky that night had been ridiculous, when Merlin didn’t yet know all the stars in the sky by name. “You named one after the tavern girl from the Rising Sun!”

“It looked like her!” Gwaine defended, as he had that night.

“I didn’t see it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see the one you said looked like your horse!”

They both laughed, trying to think of the other stars they’d named or the patterns they formed. Merlin couldn’t remember, exactly. None had been as amusing as the tavern girl.

The scotch sloshed as Gwaine drank and passed the bottle to Merlin again. As Merlin dipped his head back, he felt Gwaine’s eyes burning into the exposed line of his throat. 

It reminded him of another memory—a night so long ago. The night Arthur and Gwen had wed, and Arthur swept Gwen to his bed. Merlin hadn’t slept in his own bed that night, either. 

He and Gwaine never spoke of it again. Luckily, there was no awkwardness that followed between them. They’d been friends for much too long for that. But there had been looks, secret and wanting but never again acted upon. However, that was nothing new. There had been looks shared between them since the day they met.

“We should do that again,” Gwaine said, and Merlin started enough for some whiskey to trickle out of his mouth in a stutter. Before he lowered the bottle, he realised Gwaine had been talking about the stars.

“There’s too much light pollution in the city,” Merlin said, trying to compose himself. “But maybe one day we can find somewhere dark enough.”

Gwaine seemed pleased when he took back the bottle. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Merlin was giddy at the idea of making new memories, but maybe it was just the alcohol swimming around his head.

 

///

 

After dinner, Arthur stood in the bedroom the Commissioner had given him for the night. He hooked a finger around the curtain to peer out at the streets below. They were empty, save for a policewoman who patrolled the roundabout in front of the palace. Arthur thought the Commissioner would have wanted to put extra security around the palace, but he didn’t see anyone else patrolling.

The real meat of the patrols were in the rest of the city, which stretched on for miles in every direction. Bright lights of every shade pulled together in radioactive hues, and slowly tapered off into the distance until there was nothing but black. Briefly, Arthur wondered just how many armed police were out there—all of them on double shifts and ragged, and therefore much more likely to be harsh on anyone who broke curfew. Citizens, cowering in their homes, were under suspicion.

Morgana hadn’t stepped foot in London in twenty-fours hours, and still she got what she wanted. Fear. It wouldn’t be long until that led to unrest. The Commissioner was only doing what he thought was right, but he had no idea he was playing right into her hands. 

Soon, Arthur’s thoughts shifted as his gaze lingered on a patch of darkness far across the city, where the factory was. Where Merlin was.

All throughout dinner, Arthur had eyed the space next to him where Merlin should have been seated. He couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He was _tired_ of thinking about him. He had to deal with other matters.

Arthur exhaled so wearily it fogged the glass before him, and he let the curtain flick shut.

There was a light knock at the opened door, and he found Gwen over his shoulder. Every part of him relaxed. Gwen had helped him greatly with the Commissioner. She spoke when Arthur couldn’t think of what to say, she picked him up where he stumbled, she simplified thoughts he couldn’t even convey. They’d made a good team. He’d almost forgotten that.

They’d always made such a good team. 

“Guinevere,” he greeted, turning to face her. He was a little thrown by her presence so late. “This is a surprise.” 

“A pleasant one, I hope,” she said as she took a few steps into the room. 

He moved to meet her in the middle. “Always.”

She regarded him gently, but her expression quickly moulded into concern. “I came to check up on you. You seemed preoccupied at dinner.”

_Distracted_ , more like. It was all Arthur could do not to look back at the window, half expecting the miles between he and Merlin to fall away. 

“Merlin?” 

Arthur’s heart lurched, and his eyes snapped to meet hers. He hadn’t understood the question until it was a moment too late. He wasn’t sure what she made of the look until she soothed, “I’m certain he’ll be alright. Gwaine will take good care of him.” 

Arthur snorted bitterly, and not just because _Gwaine_ and _caregiver_ were antonyms in his book. “He shouldn’t _need_ to be cared for,” he gritted out, his emotions turning to annoyance at the surface. “He should be _here_ , where I need him.”

Gwen didn’t argue, but he could tell she didn’t agree. However, she admitted, “It _is_ out of character for him.” 

His eyes lit up. Her words had only justified his anger. Deep down, he knew Merlin had the right to wallow, but for god’s sake, did he have to choose _now_ of all times? Hadn’t he been the one constantly prattling about Arthur’s so-called destiny? And now that it was on the verge of beginning, he risked losing it all by being unreliable. It was not like him at all.

“Exactly!”

That was why Arthur never knew how to deal with Merlin when depressed, when he was the opposite of everything Merlin ever was or ever had been in Camelot. Of course, in Camelot, Merlin couldn’t be relied on to do his chores on time or without extensive complaining; but, for the things that really mattered, Merlin was always at Arthur’s side. Suddenly, Arthur felt very abandoned. 

He sighed again and shook his head sombrely. “It always is.” 

Gwen pulled her brows together in perplexity. “This sort of thing has happened to him before?” 

“Yes,” Arthur admitted, finding he didn’t hesitate. It was nice to finally be able to talk to someone about it. She wouldn’t judge Merlin or think him weak. She would want to help. Besides, Arthur could think of no one better to confide in. With every word, his chest felt lighter. “I’m not sure when it began. I don’t know how to stop it or what to do about it, but there’s no talking to him. He’s just so . . .”

Arthur remembered the sadness he’d experienced during their vision quest. He’d never felt anything like it. Merlin didn’t even try to fight it. It was all consuming, and it felt a lot like giving up. Arthur never wanted to feel anything close to it again. He couldn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure Merlin could, either. 

“It happens less now, at least,” he said. “Ever since—.” 

_Ever since we married_.

Arthur stopped short, remembering to whom he was speaking. The halt had been jarring. Gwen shook her head and inquired, “Since when?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know. About a year ago,” he avoided, hoping it didn’t sound too obvious. He waved his hand vaguely before she could question him further. “You’re probably right. He’ll be fine.” 

She nodded. “He _will_ be. Nothing would prevent him from being at your side for too long.”

She’d said it as if Arthur were the one who could pull Merlin through it. He was probably the one making it worse. Merlin alone needed to fight to regain control of himself.

“He’s his own man, Guinevere.” 

“ _I_ know that,” she insisted, “but it’s Merlin. To him, he’ll always be yours.” 

Arthur searched her face, wondering if she was implying that she knew his secret. But she didn’t seem to mean anything of the sort. She was simply just trying to comfort him.

Still, the conversation was idling on a steep precipice, one Arthur could not jump off at the moment. Desperate to change the conversation, he asked, “What did you think about the Commissioner? Do you think he’ll help us?”

Taking the change of topic in stride, she answered, “I think he’s scared enough to do anything—or nothing. Both can be dangerous.”

“Not scared enough to believe in a myth,” Arthur bit out.

Gwen kept her cool. “It is a lot to ask. But Wallace will convince him.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

At once, Gwen took a large step forward, and there was hardly space for breath between them. Arthur didn’t notice, anyway. All his breath had been taken from him.

“Then _you_ will,” she urged. “Not because of some legend, but because of who you are, Arthur. He will see that you are a strong ally to have.”

He was touched by her confidence, and prayed she was right. “I hope so. We need allies if we’re to rescue my father.”

For a moment, Gwen didn’t reply. She surveyed him in that unnerving but comforting way that could see right through him. He took the pause to look at her fully at such close proximity. Her eyes twinkled with the uncanny wisdom that she had always possessed. The freckles painting her nose and cheeks seemed to dance in the shadows. Her soft lips pulled into a line as she considered something.

“Arthur,” she began slowly, regaining his attention. “I know what you’re thinking. About your father.” 

There was no point in playing dumb. She would see right through it. “He can save everyone.”

Her curls bounced against her shoulders as she shook her head. “You can’t seriously consider putting him in charge of all you strive for.” 

“And why not?” he answered, slightly defensive. “He was the one who made Camelot what it was. He’ll do it again here. He’ll keep us safe and drive out our enemies.”

“He saw everyone as an enemy,” she reminded him, not gently but not forcibly, either. “Even those who may have been our friends. His ways were archaic, even for our time. He would not know what to do in today’s world.”

“And I do?” No. He didn’t. He hadn’t a single idea.

“You will find a way,” she whispered to him. “Arthur, I have seen you as king. You inspire loyalty, not from fear but from love. You _will_ convince the Commissioner to help us, and the rest will follow. You always spoke of uniting the lands in peace. What better time than now?” 

Strangely, Arthur’s confidence boosted, but it was still greatly overshadowed by his own doubt. “There will be much hardship before we can achieve that,” he lamented. “That goal may not even be possible, Guinevere. Look at the world. It’s like it _wants_ to be divided. How can I make it otherwise?”

“I did not say it would be easy.” Quickly, she took his hands in her own and held them between each other. “Please, see what I see in you—what we all see. You are a strong leader, Arthur, and a _good_ man. Do not throw this opportunity away.” 

He stared at their entwined hands. In the contact, it was so easy to want to believe her. But it didn’t make his circumstance any more daunting.

As though she could read his mind (and she probably could), she lifted her shoulders in a breath and said, “I do not know what’s to happen, Arthur, but know that, whatever you choose to do, I will stand by you. You will get nothing but my support, and my love.” 

Of that, he never had any doubt. Why, then, did her words hit him so hard? 

He couldn’t stop gazing into her, and she looked back imploringly. She hardly ever blinked. In her irises, the Arthur mirrored back at him was so much stronger and braver than the real thing. But, he thought, with her at his side, he could at least _try_.

She had always pushed him to do better, to be better. 

Before he consciously knew what he was doing, his head tilted in to her. She lifted her chin to meet him halfway. The kiss was as light as a feather, but it made Arthur’s heart sputter.

In moments, it deepened. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down closer to her. He let her guide him without resistance. He held her frame, his hands naturally cupping in places he’d thought they’d forgotten. Instantly, he recalled how one of his splayed palms covered the full of the small of her back. He placed one there, and the other right above it.

And then there was only Guinevere. All the memories they’d shared, all they’d worked to achieve together, all their hardships and heartbreak, and all the moments he’d missed after his death. If he had survived through the years, who else would he have grown into? Who else would she have made him become?

He dipped her, and her hold around him strengthened.

When the kiss broke, they remained still. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing how veiled they were. He, too, was dazed. A smile spread across his face. She returned it breathlessly.

Then, chatter sounded from the hallway. It was fast approaching. Arthur looked up to the opened door, cursing it. They straightened out, both clearing their throats and trying to act natural just as Arthur’s men reached the door. 

“There you are,” Elyan said, sounding delighted. Percival and Leon, too, looked excited about something. Lancelot, however, seemed to be quietly assessing the situation. His eyes flashed from Arthur to Gwen, and back. And then he averted them completely.

As Arthur zeroed in on Lancelot’s presence, a plethora of emotions hit him like a wall. How could one man incite such jealousy and such guilt without saying a single word? 

At once, Arthur had the urge to run back to the factory—curfew be damned—and fall at Merlin’s feet begging for forgiveness he didn’t deserve. The other part of him wanted to kiss Gwen again, right in plain view of Lancelot. 

“Wallace has invited us downstairs. He says he’s going to teach us to play a card game. Poker, I believe he called it,” Elyan went on. “Join us?”

Still breathless, Gwen looked to Arthur and then back. “I’d love to,” she agreed happily. 

All gazes but one swept to Arthur, and Leon called to him in question. 

Arthur felt like he was going to be sick. “No, I’m rather tired,” he excused, managing to keep his dinner down. “Go have fun.”

Gwen looked at him beseechingly and with perplexity, and he tried to give her a reassuring smile. It came out too tight. As the others left, she followed, but not before brushing his arm with her hand. The contact made him shiver.

Lancelot saw it.

Arthur couldn’t look at him. He prayed he wouldn’t tell Merlin.

He turned around and listened to the sound of their footsteps disappearing down the corridor. He stayed that way for a long time after they’d disappeared.

Suddenly, there was another knock at the door, and Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin thinking it was Lancelot come back to scold him. Well, he probably wouldn’t _scold_ him. Rather, he would give him a sorrowful look and say something noble and selfless—which was arguably worse than a scolding.

However, it wasn’t Lancelot. The Commissioner’s butler was standing in the doorframe, his hands folded behind his back.

“Good evening, sir.”

Arthur cleared his throat into his fist, giving himself a moment to collect his nerves. “Hello—Ainsworth, was it?”

Ainsworth nodded. “Yes, sir. Commissioner Wallace has requested a private meeting with you in the study.” 

At once, Arthur’s nerves jumped again, but he didn’t let it show outwardly. He feared the Commissioner would tell him he was insane and send him away, but then he tried to calm himself. If the Commissioner did not wish to strike a deal, he wouldn’t be meeting with Arthur again. Deciding this boded well, Arthur forced all thoughts of Merlin and Gwen from his mind and followed Ainsworth through the palace.

In the study, the Commissioner was sitting at a large oak desk, a mountain of papers in front of him and an ashtray, with a nearly spent cigarette curling its grey smoke upwards, to his side. He looked up from his glasses when Ainsworth announced Arthur’s presence.

“Thank you, Ainsworth. Arthur, please sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of him. Arthur did as he was asked as the door closed behind him. He was sure to keep his spine straight against the back of his chair, and his arms on the rests without white knuckling the edges. In court, Uther always scolded Arthur for lounging on his throne. 

“You’re not meant to be comfortable while discussing matters of the kingdom,” Uther had once snipped at him. From that day on, Arthur tried to remember to keep a regal posture in matters such as these. 

“You wished to speak with me?” Arthur asked, ensuring his tone was just as firm.

“Yes, yes, I did,” said the Commissioner. He took off his glasses, and held them loftily by one of their legs. Arthur’s eyes flittered down to the documents on the desk, and tried to be inconspicuous in figuring out what they were. They seemed to be some kind of reports, possibly from the riots last night.

When he looked back up again, the Commissioner was studying him hard, as though trying to form an opinion on him. He seemed to have caught Arthur eyeing the papers, but did nothing about it; although, he did look mildly pleased at Arthur’s interest. He touched the tip of one of his glasses’ legs to his lips.

“My nephew spoke with me after dinner,” he said at last. “He’s placed a lot of trust in you. I hold his opinion very highly. I want you to know that.”

Arthur nodded, suddenly very grateful that Wallace was in his life. 

The Commissioner leaned forward and folded his hands together on the desk. “Assume for a moment I believe you,” he said, and Arthur dared not feel relief just yet. “How did you defeat someone as powerful as Morgana the first time?”

Arthur really wished Gwen were there. She was better at picking her words. He had to tread carefully, to not make any seemingly outlandish claims. He needed the Commissioner to believe him. 

“We’d battled against her for many years,” he began slowly, and remembered all those who had been lost to Morgana’s crusade. It wasn’t just villages or soldiers of Camelot. She’d killed Druids, too. Her own people. She stopped at nothing. “She led a Saxon army bent on invading Camelot. Instead of risking the city, we rode out to meet her at a place called Camlann.” 

The Commissioner narrowed his eyes in a way that made Arthur’s stomach flip, but he remained quiet so Arthur continued on.

“There, we were able to hold back her troops. After, she came for me alone. I possess a weapon able to kill her.” He paused, wondering if what he was about to say fit into the _outlandish_ category, but he decided to risk it. “My manservant used it against her.” 

“Your manservant?”

It simultaneously felt so right and wrong to call Merlin that again. Arthur had almost forgotten Merlin used to hold that position. He only ever fully recalled it whenever Merlin made a sarcastic slight alluding to it. Even then, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Arthur supposed it had been.

“Merlin,” he corrected.

The Commissioner’s eyebrow quirked, like it was the last name he’d ever suspected to hear. “Your manservant, _Merlin_?” 

Arthur tried to remember what Merlin had been to him in those ridiculous legends. A tutor? _That_ was laughable. An advisor? Well, in a way, he had been, in everything but title. Both those things were the furthest thing Arthur could think of from a manservant—the furthest thing, other than a king or a consort. 

“He’s not with us tonight,” Arthur added awkwardly, just because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He hadn’t meant it to sound so bitter.

“Is this weapon? The one you say can kill Morgana.”

Arthur had ensured he brought it. It was packed safely in his luggage. He hadn’t been accustomed to taking it on the streets of London, in fear it would be confiscated. But times had changed very quickly with Morgana alive. Besides, after this morning, Arthur wasn’t going to leave it anywhere near Merlin. 

“It’s somewhere safe,” he said, not wanting to tell the Commissioner any of this. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wallace or the Commissioner, but he wouldn’t let either of them get a hold of his sword.

The Commissioner appeared dubious, like he believed Morgana could be defeated with any weapon, that any prison could hold her. Arthur prayed he wouldn’t ever find out how wrong he was.

“You have to understand how unbelievable this all is. The only reason you’re still here is because of David,” the Commissioner levelled with him.

Arthur couldn’t say he blamed him, but he was rather hoping the Commissioner would miraculously believe him immediately. Perhaps a miracle was too much to hope for right now without Merlin at his side. 

So, he had to be practical—as practical as the Commissioner was being. He had to be as realistic as Gwen, and did his best to channel what she might say had she been present.

“I understand, and I thank you for your patience. I know I cannot prove what I say, but it does not matter who I am,” he said, hearing Gwen’s voice as he did. “What matters is who Morgana is, and what she’s planning. If I know my sister, she won’t stop until she holds power over all of Britain and everyone who opposes her is dead. She’s not a terrorist, like Cyrus was. She’s something else entirely, and she’s ruthless. All the provinces must stand united against her if they hope to survive.” 

The Commissioner sat back again, more wearily this time. He remembered what a united country once looked like. Perhaps he was remembering now, as he sighed, “United. That’s even more of a fairytale than King Arthur.”

Arthur tried to let the comment roll off his back. There were bigger issues to deal with at the moment. “I can’t accept that,” he said honestly. “It wasn’t so long ago that Britain stood together. We must believe it can happen again.”

Maybe Arthur was asking too much too soon, but the Commissioner had to know he truly believed what he was saying. He needed the Commissioner—President Darby, Prime Minister Simmons, the Lord Protector of Wales, and even Chancellor Brown—to believe it, too. 

And he needed his father back, to lead them.

Deep in thought, the Commissioner twirled his glasses in circles. All the while, Arthur tried to wait patiently, but his teeth were grinding in anticipation.

“I will consider what you’ve said to me,” the Commissioner finally said. “Once my people gather more information on Morgana, I will decide whether or not I believe you.”

Arthur tried to tell himself it was better than a no. He nodded and stood up, knowing the conversation was over. “I hope to see you soon, Commissioner.”

He held out his hand, and the Commissioner stood up and held it firmly over the desk.

“I hope you don’t, Arthur,” the Commissioner said before letting go, and he inspected Arthur again in a very ambiguous way, “but you’re a very peculiar man—I can’t place why—and something tells me we’ll see quite a bit of each other soon. I believe Britain can use a man like you.”

Arthur wasn’t certain how to respond to that, or even what the Commissioner was actually saying. But it reminded him of something Queen Annis had said to him years ago. He couldn’t remember her words precisely, but they had both flattered and confused him. While he doubted her claim, she had regarded him with the same odd look the Commissioner was giving him now.

Something told Arthur that the Commissioner just as rarely handed out compliments as Annis did, so he didn’t dare argue. 

Instead, he took his leave, and met Ainsworth back in the corridor. He clenched his fists the entire way back to his room, but didn’t allow himself to fall apart until the door was closed securely.

Arthur had never been a patient man, but it seemed waiting was all he did anymore. He had half a mind to forget the Commissioner’s aid altogether and rescue Uther himself. But he couldn’t act so rashly. He would have, if he were a younger man, without Gwen and Merlin’s influence. Now, he’d learned a forced kind of patience. 

He couldn’t risk his men to Morgana, and he couldn’t risk the fragile relationship he was building with the Commissioner. Uther would understand this, Arthur hoped, when they finally got him back. 

Arthur went back to the window, and wished he could see beyond London to where his father was. Silently, he skewed his eyes tight and thought, as though it would somehow reach Uther, _Hang on a little longer, Father, and I promise to find you_.

He knew Uther wouldn’t hear it; and, if he could, he would deny it. Mind reading was magic, after all, wasn’t it?

 

///

 

The next morning, Merlin’s eyes fluttered open to the subdued light from the overcast sun coming through the cracks in the curtains. And to Gwaine sleeping softly beside him.

The bottle of scotch was empty now, and had rolled to the other side of the room when it was discarded. Gwaine lay on top of the blankets, his shirt bunched up to reveal his impossibly firm stomach. As he breathed shallowly, the strands of hair that had fallen in front of his face danced.

Merlin was groggy. His eyes still drooped and his mouth was thick with cotton. His thoughts were sluggish amidst a headache and a queasy stomach, but they soon turned back to the previous night. 

They’d stayed up until sunrise. Gwaine mourned over the loss of all the trouble they could have gotten up to around the citadel if only he’d known about Merlin’s magic. Merlin made up for it by performing some tricks for him, showing him some talismans and crystals and voodoo dolls, and giving him playful tarot readings, during which he’d pulled the _strength_ card every time.

Mostly, they relived old memories—some shared, but mostly events that happened after Gwaine’s death. Drunk, it was easier for Merlin to remember the better days he’d had and the wonders of the world he’d travelled. He played Zeppelin’s _Kashmir_ on the tape player, and Gwaine loved it, which Merlin knew he would. He’s made Gwaine try chocolate. He told Gwaine of the Carnevale di Venezia during the Renaissance, of the Festival of Colours in India, of his pathetically short stint on a pirate ship, of the Roaring Twenties, of Disco . . . 

“Tell me, Merlin,” Gwaine had said at one point, curiosity shielding the sadness in his voice, “in all those years, did you ever once think of me?”

Merlin had heard the sadness. He had felt it. “Yes,” he had admitted, “more times than you know.”

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Gwaine.

And then his thoughts turned back to that night—the night of Arthur’s wedding. In all their days in Camelot, Merlin knew Arthur was unattainable. Merlin was a shadow, and Arthur was in the light. There was no way Arthur could ever love him back, so Merlin had banished the thought from his mind. 

Still, it always seemed to slip back in at the loneliest times. It was often followed by the thought of Gwaine. Merlin wondered if he should have been more devoted to a man who could love him back, a person who was willing and, more than that, hopeful. But the thought made Merlin sick to his stomach whenever it reared its head. It felt too much like settling for second best.

It wouldn’t be fair to Gwaine. 

Maybe once he had felt something for Gwaine, but it wasn’t love. That had always been for Arthur. Undeniably, Merlin was Arthur’s—forever. 

But Arthur was never Merlin’s. Even now, Merlin could lose him. Gwen was back. She belonged with Arthur, and he belonged with her. He’d chosen her first. Only when she was gone, did Arthur come to Merlin. He’d settled for second best.

Merlin stretched his fingers towards Gwaine to brush back the loose strands of hair. He stopped himself before making contact.

He couldn’t let such thoughts in. They festered like a sickness and pushed him down like weights when he was in this state. He wasn’t thinking clearly, that much he knew. Or, at least, he knew it later, when his mood had lifted and the ailment went into remission. Now, however, in the throes of it, it felt a lot like he was thinking clearly for the first time. He was allowing himself to recognise the truth, no matter how unfortunate. 

He grappled with pushing the thoughts away and believing them to his core.

He dragged himself out of bed, ignoring the stinging of his red-rimmed eyes. He couldn’t stay lying next to Gwaine; it was too confusing. He grabbed his tarot cards and went into the living room. He plopped onto the sofa and stared at the velvet pouch in his hands for a long time.

Morbid curiosity needled at his mind. Nothing had changed. The cards would tell him the same thing they had before. But he hoped they wouldn’t.

Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, because he took the cards out and shuffled them. He fanned them out onto the coffee table and hovered his palm over them. He searched for the right card to pick, to the one he was drawn to. It was about midway into the deck. The air over it made static crackle in his fingertips.

He turned it over.

_The Lovers_.

Merlin swallowed hard. The stinging in his eyes turned to burning. His gut was hollow, but he tasted bile thick in his throat. He ran his hand through his hair and breathed shakily, trying to centre himself. It didn’t help at all. 

The man and the woman on the card were wrapped around each other more tightly than they’d ever been. They were probably mocking him.

Fleetingly, Merlin wished everyone but Arthur had stayed in their graves.

 

///

 

Morgana found her sister on the training pitch. Morgause was much more skilled with a sword than any other on the field, but Morgana did not hold that against her troops. She remembered the first time she saw Morgause fight. It had been against Arthur, the supposedly greatest warrior in all the five kingdoms.

He’d been undefeated—until Morgause put him on his back in front of the whole of Camelot. She’d had a sword to his throat, and Morgana wished now Morgause had sliced him through then.

But Morgause’s plans were always so much more eloquent than that.

Morgana halted at the sidelines, where some of the resting soldiers stood to attention and attempted to look busy in her presence. She paid them no mind, and watched as Morgause sparred with three men, all twice her size. One by one, they fell, toppled by a kick to the chest or incapacitated by an elbow to the nose. The last man lost when Morgause’s blade slid through his belly.

“Never let your guard down,” she ordered as he fell to his knees. He clutched his stomach when she removed her sword, but no blood trickled through his fingers. “Get up. Go to the archery field. Perhaps you’ll be of more use there.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the soldier gasped, stumbling to his feet. As he scurried off, Morgause caught sight of Morgana and sauntered over.

“Sister,” she said when she was level with Morgana. Her voice was soft and breathy and her forehead shimmering with exertion. “This is a delightful surprise. How have you managed to sneak away from your duties?” 

Morgana had been playing catch up for the last two days: reading Cyrus’ ledgers, meeting with his lieutenants and generals, taking in the state of her kingdom. She’d barely had a moment to herself. A break and some fresh air were welcome; however, she could only enjoy the latter. She had business to discuss with Morgause. Rest would have to wait until Britain was hers.

“Who says I have?” Morgana asked, eliciting a gentle laugh. She squinted back to the field, the afternoon sunlight brightening the green. A group of soldiers hustled around the track surrounding the field. “I thought Cenred was meant to be sparring with the soldiers.”

Morgause snorted haughtily. “Only if we desire subpar fighters. I took on the task of training them myself, and sent Cenred to oversee the slaves.”

Morgana imagined it: Cenred quietly fuming off the training pitch, headed towards the stink of the kitchen or stables. “I’m sure he loved that.”

“He did not.” Morgause seemed humoured by it. “But he knows his place.”

Of course, he did. Morgause had trained him well, too.

“You did not come here to watch me fight,” Morgause said at once. She was surveying Morgana up and down, as though she could see through to the heart of her. The stare unnerved many, but never Morgana. In fact, it always made her feel safe. 

“I’ve been thinking of Uther,” Morgana told her. “I think it’s time we moved on in our plans for him.”

One of Morgause’s thin brows quirked upward. “So soon?”

“I don’t see any reason we shouldn’t. Arthur is, no doubt, obsessing over how to save his dear father. Why not disrupt his plans for rescue?” Uther was meant to be a distraction for Arthur, but in truth he was distracting Morgana, too. She could no longer keep him so close at hand. It brought up memories she wished to forget, and emotions she’d worked hard to rid herself of. 

It was time to move forward. It was time Uther finally became of use to her.

“I fear the timing isn’t right,” Morgause considered. “Emrys may suspect something.”

Morgana gritted her teeth at the name. Her chest tightened. “Even better,” she spat. “Let him be afraid.” 

_Of me_.

Morgana hadn’t said it, but Morgause understood her meaning.

“He will come to fear you, sister, if he does not already,” she assured. 

It sounded very much like Morgause was agreeing to the plan. “So, you believe it’s time? With Arthur and Emrys distracted, the provinces will be easily conquered.” 

Morgause did not answer for a long time. She took in a sharp breath and looked back towards the soldiers on the field. The group of joggers trotted past on their laps and retreated away again before she answered. Morgana’s patience was starting to run thin, but she allowed Morgause time to ponder.

“This army is well trained with weapons, but their magic worries me,” she finally said. It threw Morgana, who had been expecting a yes or no. “It’s so pathetic—so _weak_. Even with their combined abilities, our weapon is not yet strong enough to wipe out the provinces. We need more magic.”

Morgana thought hard, trying to find a way to convince Morgause they were ready and unstoppable. “I’m told we receive new recruits all the time.”

Morgause shook her head. “It isn’t good enough. We need more—much more.”

Morgana considered maybe she was right. They had an army that could not be killed, but Emrys had stopped them before. This time, Morgana and Morgause had enchanted the Cup so that it could not be emptied so easily, but she did not know if it stood a chance against Emrys’ magic or a blow from Arthur’s sword. Their army could be decimated in the blink of an eye. They could not allow Emrys time to strike. A bomb that could wipe out full cities at a time was much more effective. For that, she needed more magicians to join her cause. She needed every magician in Britain to feed their power into the weapon.

“Then, we take recruits by force, if we must,” she schemed. Morgause turned back to her to show Morgana had her attention. “First, we go north—into Scotland. There is a clan on the borderlands. The Wastelands divide them from the other clans of Scotland. Without easily received reinforcements, they will fall quickly to us. We take their lands and their people, and then we make our way south to the provinces.”

Morgause seemed mildly impressed. She pursed her lips in what looked like pride. “You have learned much about Britain in such a short time.” 

Morgana raised her chin. She’d gained as much information she could about the state of the world. Much of it, she had learned from Malcolm. He was always so willing to do whatever she required of him. 

“A queen must know her lands if she wishes to rule them,” Morgana stated simply, and Morgause nodded once in agreement. It was time to set things in motion.

“Then, there’s no time to delay,” Morgana said, as excitement for what lay ahead burst through her chest. She would not fail this time. “Have Mordred ready the troops.”

“And Uther?”

She would not fail. Everything had to go perfectly. For that, Arthur and Emrys had to stay out of her way. Uther had to be her responsibility, and hers alone. He was too important to her success. 

“I will take care of him myself.”

 

///

 

On the way back to the factory, Lancelot stared at Arthur in the peripherals of his vision. He tried to stop himself, to look elsewhere; but then his eyes only found Gwen, which was no better.

He could no longer bite his tongue. It was one thing when Arthur was lying to her, but another thing entirely now that their relationship was rekindled. Lancelot wondered how long this had been going on. Since Gwen returned, or since the previous night?

He tried to tell himself he had no proof, that he was being paranoid. But he knew what he saw, and he knew what he felt. 

It was the same sensation he’d always gotten when he saw them together. It twisted deep in his gut and strangled his throat. It wasn’t quite jealousy, but rejection, one he knew was coming. It left him downtrodden every time.

At least, in Camelot, he told himself it was for the best. Gwen was happy, and for that, he was willing to make whatever sacrifice. But now, nothing good could come from this. Not for Gwen, not for Arthur, and certainly not for Merlin. 

Lancelot wanted to get angry, to scold Arthur for being so untrue. Merlin had nearly gone mad with grief because he’d almost lost Arthur, and this was Arthur’s response? Merlin had a right to know, as did Gwen. Lancelot had never thought Arthur could be so unfaithful—twice, no less.

But how could he tell Merlin? Merlin had only ever been honest with him. Lancelot owed him the same, to spare him the pain of the future. He could let his friend down gently. But Lancelot couldn’t bear to cause Merlin’s heart to break. He couldn’t tell him.

And he certainly couldn’t tell Gwen. She looked so happy—smiling at Arthur the entire ride home, casting him glances with sparkling eyes. How could he take that from her? He’d gotten in the way of her marriage before. He couldn’t again. 

Perhaps she never had to know. Perhaps Arthur had chosen her, and she had once more chosen Arthur. Perhaps she needn’t know about Arthur and Merlin’s marriage, so long as Arthur was honest with Merlin.

It was a lot to hope for. 

Lancelot barely registered the car pulling up to the factory. He merely went through the motions as he stepped back into the building and filed through the corridor with the others. His thoughts ascended the stairs before him as they marched to Arthur’s flat. 

He only realised where they were when Arthur opened the door to the flat, and they found Gwaine sitting on the sofa. Merlin’s tarot cards were spread out on the coffee table before him, and Gwaine was idly flipping them over with mild interest. 

“Gwaine?” Arthur questioned, sounding surprised. Lancelot caught his eyes nervously flash towards the bedroom. “Where’s Merlin?”

Gwaine cleared his throat and stood up to greet them. He seemed much more chipper than he had been the day before. “Still sleepin’, last I checked.”

“How is he?” Gaius asked, ever concerned. 

Lancelot didn’t know what answer he hoped for. If Merlin was in a better way, he wouldn’t be for long when he found out what happened; but if were still in the throes of his depression, Lancelot feared he would spiral further away. Merlin knew what rejection felt like, too, and he felt it much deeper than Lancelot ever could.

Gwaine shrugged. “Better, I think. He seemed it last night, anyway.”

“Well, that’s good!” Gwen exclaimed, putting on a grin. She met Arthur’s eyes, but added to the rest of the group, “We’ve been very worried about him. Perhaps we should try waking him up?” 

“No,” Arthur said a bit too quickly. He cleared his throat to compose himself. Lancelot felt his chest tighten as he realised Arthur wanted to avoid Merlin for as long as possible. “Let him sleep. He’ll come out when he’s—.” 

Arthur stopped short. His stare was fixed on the bedroom door, and his face went pallid. Lancelot followed his gaze and found Merlin standing in the frame. He still looked more tired than Lancelot had ever seen him, and still wore his nightclothes, despite the hour. In the light of day, it made him look like a boy—innocent and small, fragile as glass.

At once, Lancelot knew he could not tell Merlin—at least, not now. But he could not count on Arthur to do so. Arthur would wait, like he waited to tell Gwen. Who knew how long it would take, and the dishonesty would only hurt Merlin more in the long-term. 

Merlin had given so much of himself already, and he would continue to do so despite a broken heart. That, to Lancelot, was the worst part of all.

Arthur’s guilt should not have been Lancelot’s to bear, but he did so anyway.

“Merlin?” Arthur said once everyone else in the room had noticed Merlin’s presence. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Upon hearing his name, Merlin’s jaw clamped. He looked past Arthur, not even seeming to notice how close Arthur and Gwen were standing. He looked to Gaius. At once, he marched forward with enough determination to spin the earth in the opposite direction. He threw his arms around Gaius and did not let go. 

Over Merlin’s shoulder, Gaius gaped. He held out his hands as though he hadn’t a single idea what to do with them—as though he and Merlin had never embraced before. But then, he settled, and his expression became warm and grateful. He placed his palms on Merlin’s back and gave him a few gentle pats.

Lancelot did not know what it was all about, but he felt they deserved their privacy. He looked to the others and nodded softly to the door, signalling they should leave.

Lancelot had no place there. There would be time soon enough to tear Merlin apart, but for now he hoped Gaius could put him back together.


	9. Chapter 9

The village had been larger than the rest they’d hit in the last five days, but it was still tiny. Only two hundred people called it home. _Only_. Mordred would have called that large, or he would have in his time. He’d seen cities with less people.

Slowly, their army was making their way north. The populations of the villages in their wake dropped significantly after they’d passed through. 

Mordred stood on the outskirts of the smouldering homes and roadways, watching the mass of soldiers at work. They dragged their cargo across the grass and tossed it carelessly in the heap with the others. 

One of them was carrying something over his shoulder. Limbs dangled, and tattered garments flapped. Something red was dripping from beneath the skirt. Mordred sucked in a breath and quickly tore his eyes away, trying to keep his imagination from forming any pictures. It was no use. Images seared themselves into the forefront of his mind. 

He squared himself, trying to make himself look taller and older than any of the men around him. He _was_ older, after all—if one counted all the years he was dead. 

He looked off at the thinning fog rolling over the hills in the distance. If they continued north, they’d soon run out of land. The Wastelands would bar their path from the rest of Scotland, where the united clans would be a force the Neos could not yet take on. 

Someone settled at his side. He knew the presence before he even turned to her. It was comforting, despite how sharp the air had suddenly become.

“My Queen,” he said, giving her a slight bow.

Morgana surveyed the progression of her troops. “How many survived last night’s bomb?”

“We counted nearly forty.”

She bit back a satisfied smirk. The weapon had never taken so many lives over such a large space before. It was growing stronger, and she was growing with it. As she swelled with pride, her inhale tripping with exhilaration, so did Mordred. He felt it bloom in his chest, filling him with energy despite the fact that his eyes were itching for sleep.

They’d barely had a moment to rest since they marched out from York. On top of that, Mordred had offered more than his fair share of magic to the weapon. But he’d drain himself if it helped their cause.

“And of them,” Morgana asked, “how many were magicians?” 

She turned her attention to Mordred, and he swivelled to hold her gaze. “Eleven.”

Morgana gasped, impressed. “How many joined us?” she asked hopefully.

The corners of his lips pulled up, making him look younger by far than any of his comrades. “Nine, Morgana. Your influence is growing.”

She tried to hold her composure. She straightened her posture, placing her palm over her stomach, and steeled her expression, but it cracked momentarily. A smile erupted onto her face, and she let out a breath of victorious laughter.

“That makes twenty-seven new recruits in five days,” Mordred pointed out.

She shook herself out, and corrected herself, once again becoming the perfect picture of strength and power. “People are tired of living in fear. They know we are their salvation.”

She turned her gaze back to the throng before her, and her expression soured. “What of those who didn’t join us?” 

Mordred cleared his throat. His intestines twisted, but he dared not let it show. Guilt was not something he could afford anymore. It was the trait of a Knight of Camelot—a weakness, drilled into his mind by Arthur’s frailty and Merlin’s suspicion. He had to do what he must, even if it meant sacrificing his own kind. If they did not stand with the Neos, they stood against them. The world they were to build would not be achieved with weakness. 

“They were disposed of as you commanded,” he said, “along with the others.” 

“ _All_ the others?” Morgana wondered, reproving. 

“The meek ones will be taken back to base, but there weren’t many to choose from. We’re getting closer to the Wastelands, Morgana. People here are diseased and crippled. It’s said they were born that way. We should go south.” 

“You should go,” she corrected. “Take half the troops with you.”

Mordred did not like the idea of leaving her side. “And the other half?” 

“We will remain in Scotland and meet you in a few days. If we’re to take on the provinces, we first need more magic at our disposal. Anglia will fall easily enough, but the others are a different story. They will rebel, especially in the Midlands. President Darby’s army is strong.”

She turned to him and placed a tender hand on his cheek. It was frigid to the touch, but he didn’t draw away. “Take the troops to the Anglican boarder and wait for me as I make our weapon stronger. We must not risk anything getting in our way if we’re to have a real war.” 

He nodded against her skin, and her hand fell away when she was satisfied. She began to move away, and he called after her, “There were some who escaped. We’re rounding them up.”

It was a simple report, but it seemed to recapture her interest. She looked back to him. “What clan has claim to this territory?”

He pulled his brows together, not understanding why it mattered. The clan was cut off from the rest in Scotland, with miles of barren death separating them from the General. “The Dumfried Clan, my Lady, led by Commander Nathara.”

“Has the Commander responded to these attacks?”

“She means to.” A scout had returned the night before last, giving a report of Nathara’s movements. “She’s preparing her people for retaliation.”

This pleased Morgana. “Let them come,” she said with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. “And call back your hunters. Let those who escaped go.” Her voice darkened and her face shadowed as she finished, “They can tell others what happens when they defy us.” 

Mordred bowed his head again as Morgana left in earnest.

When she was gone, he looked back at the soldiers dragging the dead out to the field. A pit had been dug in the earth, where pallid limbs tangled together and unseeing eyes cast prayers to the empty morning sky.

 

///

 

By the end of the week, Merlin was feeling more like himself. He no longer lay awake in the small hours of the night wondering if the sun would rise in the morning. It always did. Not that Merlin wasn’t grateful, but he couldn’t attribute his waning depression to something so common as the sunrise. 

It was because of Arthur. He’d been more considerate than usual. Arthur gave Merlin space when he needed it, and sat with him when he needed that instead. When Merlin grew silent, Arthur remained patient. He made sure Merlin got dressed and ate every day. He went to bed with Merlin at night. Once, he even tried to make Merlin tea.

At first, Arthur’s attentiveness had made Merlin suspicious. Arthur seemed to be overextending himself, and Merlin didn’t know why. But he was appreciative of such a rare show of devotion. In days, it lifted his mood.

When he woke up that morning, he stayed in bed for a while, not because he was glum, but rather the opposite. He was warm and content, and the cotton surrounding him had never been so plush against his bare skin. Every time he stretched out his limbs, he merely settled back in and hugged his pillow. It still had Arthur’s scent on it from when they rolled together the night before.

Merlin could feel Arthur padding around the kitchen. Since he’d gotten his power back from Simon, Merlin’s senses were hyper-aware of Arthur’s presence, even when Arthur wasn’t in the room with him.

And, really, Arthur _should_ have been in the room.

Merlin snuggled in close to the mattress and let his magic reach out beyond the walls. He felt Arthur’s pulse quicken with surprise when the magic enveloped him. Merlin wondered what it must have felt like—an invisible tap on the shoulder or rays of sunlight on skin? It might have been akin to the latter, because it usually put Arthur at ease. It was meant to entice him, to draw him in. 

This time was different. Arthur didn’t feel eased in the slightest. Merlin sensed worry. No—he sensed guilt.

Guilt, but not _remorse_. Arthur was feeling as though he’d been intruded upon, caught in the act. He was feeling as though he was guilty about not feeling guilty, and wanted to make it up to the one he’d wronged. 

_Me_ , Merlin realised as he recalled all the attention Arthur had been favouring him with as of late. His blood ran cold. His magic withered away from Arthur and settled back into his gut like a weight. 

Moments later, the door opened and Arthur walked through.

“I see you’re awake,” Arthur said. He padded to his side of the bed but didn’t sit down.

Reluctantly, Merlin rolled over and sat up. He pushed brightness and nodded. He didn’t want to know why Arthur was feeling so guilty. He shouldn’t have intruded upon Arthur’s headspace like that. It was wrong of him.

If Arthur truly was feeling sorry, he would tell Merlin. He wouldn’t lie to him. Merlin was probably just misinterpreting.

“How did you sleep?” Arthur wondered. 

Merlin chuckled, “Fine, thanks to you.” 

Arthur didn’t return the laugh. He hung his head suddenly.

Merlin’s heart was pounding. Desperately, he held onto his grin and leaned forward in attempt to catch Arthur’s eyes. “I’m feeling much better today.” 

“That’s good,” Arthur muttered, but his voice was far away, like he hadn’t properly been listening. He visibly mustered his courage and looked up again. “Merlin, I have something to confess.” 

The lines on Arthur’s face were too serious, and the look in his eyes was pained. Merlin’s emotions were too close to his skin, until they made him go numb. For him, dread was not a new sensation, but it suddenly felt as though he’d never experienced it before. At least, not to this magnitude.

“Did you eat all my chocolate again?” Merlin joked. He tried so hard to ignore the voice in his head screaming _no no no no no_! The voice was so sure it already knew what Arthur wanted to say. He was going to leave Merlin. He’d decided he was happier with Gwen, and they were to be married again. He’d only been nice to Merlin the last few days because he felt sorry for him, and didn’t want to break the news until Merlin was feeling better. 

Arthur let out a soft, audible breath. “No,” he said quietly, but clearly. He hesitated as though he were about to change his mind. He feared what he was about to say would pull Merlin back into his sadness. “When we were at Buckingham, Guinevere and I . . .”

Merlin was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating. 

“We kissed.” 

No, maybe it hadn’t stop beating. It was definitely working. If it hadn’t been, Merlin wouldn’t have been able to feel it crack open and spill its contents into his gut. It made him sick to his stomach. 

Arthur waved his hand a little unsurely. “On purpose,” he added.

Merlin hadn’t been aware that his fake smile had slowly fallen. “Oh,” he said in a small voice. It was all he could say. He’d forgotten all the words in his lexicon.

“It was a mistake!” Arthur hurried to say. It was just an excuse.

Merlin raised a brow in something close to humour. He wasn’t sure the information had fully hit him yet. “You just said it was on purpose.”

“No, we didn’t kiss by mistake,” Arthur stammered. “But _it_ was—it—.” He didn’t know what he wanted to say. Clearly, this conversation had gone better in his head. 

In Merlin’s head, the conversation had taken place a hundred times, and it had always gone badly. Merlin had always gotten angry, every time. The earth would shake like it were a toy and fire would fall like rain. Merlin would hate Arthur for playing with his heart in such a way. He would remind Arthur of his power, the power Merlin used only for him. He would remind Arthur of the centuries he spent waiting—hoping, dreaming.

Then, when Arthur begged for forgiveness, Merlin would send him away. If only Arthur felt one _iota_ of the pain Merlin had been through, Merlin would make him wallow in it. He’d let it consume Arthur. He’d rage and scream and tell Arthur that he wasn’t allowed to leave, because he owed Merlin at least a small bit of his affection. He owed Merlin just a little bit of his _time_ —because, after all, Merlin had given him enough of it.

The words died in Merlin’s throat, to be buried in the graveyard of his chest full of all the things he had never said.

Instead, he heard himself ask, “Do you want to get a divorce?”

Arthur’s posture turned ridged and his expression became guarded. “Why would you ask me that?”

Merlin gestured vaguely, trying to keep his own emotions at bay. What he wanted didn’t matter right now, if it ever did. “If the reason you won’t be with Gwen is because you made vows to me, I don’t want to hold you back.” 

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head like Merlin was the most ridiculous man in the world—like Merlin’s words were totally unprompted, and Arthur hadn’t just confessed to a kiss with his previous spouse. “You think you’re holding me back, do you?”

In truth, Merlin didn’t know what to think, but he nodded.

Arthur scoffed again, this time with more phlegm. Merlin found it very aggravating. Some of the anger of his fantasy reaction slipped through the cracks. “Well, I don’t know, Arthur! God, it’s not like you’re made of skin like a normal person! You have to peel back ten layers of honour just to get to the nobility beneath it!”

Arthur didn’t roll his eyes and snap something sarcastic back, like he would in a regular situation. Instead, he demanded, “Do _you_ want a divorce?”

“No!” That was the last thing Merlin ever wanted.

“Then, why do you keep acting like you do? It’s like you _want_ me to leave you!” Arthur’s hands were on his hips now, and he was glaring at Merlin like he was a moment away from shouting. It was so typical of him to get angry when he was feeling guilty.

“I _want_ you to be happy!” Merlin exclaimed. “You chose Gwen before. I know you really want to be with her.”

“Oh, what, and this time around, you were my only option? My god, Merlin, if you think that, you’re even stupider than I thought.” 

Merlin looked away. He couldn’t take this anymore. If Arthur was going to leave him, he wished he would just do it already. The waiting was tearing Merlin up inside. 

“Then, what is it, Arthur? Why me over her?”

When Arthur spoke again, he did shout—loudly and furiously and dripping with frustration, like he wanted to shake Merlin until all the loose pieces rattled back into place.

“Because I never cared if she came back!” 

Merlin didn’t know what Arthur had meant, but it silenced him anyway. He sat still, stricken.

Arthur collected himself and continued, his voice lower but with lingering edginess in it, “I missed her, yes. I missed them all. But I never . . . I never wished for them to be alive again, Merlin. All that mattered to me was that you were here.”

He sat heavily on the bed, placed his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, and stared deeply into him like he wanted the words to stick. “ _You_ are the only person I can’t live without, Merlin.”

Arthur’s words spun through Merlin’s mind. They blocked his throat as they travelled into his chest, and then seeped heavily into his stomach. 

He remembered the struggle he’d felt in Arthur. Guilt, but not remorse. So, he couldn’t live without Merlin. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with Gwen. 

“You’ll never have to,” Merlin promised him in whisper. “Arthur, I don’t want to live without you, either, but . . .” 

He didn’t like to think about his life after Arthur. He’d have no purpose. His destiny would be fulfilled. Arthur would be dead, preferably from old age. And Merlin would live on.

He’d always been so resolved to killing himself after Arthur died, but he wasn’t sure he could, no matter how he felt on his worst days. He was either too much of a coward or much too brave for it. And then there was Arthur’s reaction when Merlin had told him. Arthur didn’t want Merlin to die—not ever. He didn’t even have to say it, but Merlin knew it was his wish. 

Even in death, Arthur’s happiness surpassed Merlin’s own. 

“I’ll have to some day,” Merlin went on, though it was difficult to do past the tightness in his throat. Arthur gaze snapped back up to his. “Whatever life you have in this world, it should be a happy one. Whatever that means.” Because it was too late for Merlin. He’d only gotten glimpses of happiness out of the corners of his eyes. They were as fleeting and intangible as a mirage. One of them deserved the real thing, and Merlin would happily give up his own for Arthur’s. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Arthur’s face went very soft, and the pressure of his grip on Merlin’s shoulders slackened. He’d finally realised that they could never be, not really. Merlin hadn’t even fully realised it himself until that moment. They wouldn’t grow old together. Arthur would have to leave one day, and Merlin would be left trying to pick up the pieces.

It would be easier if Arthur left now. That way, Merlin would be more prepared for the inevitable. That way, it would hurt less.

Merlin swallowed hard.

God, it wouldn’t hurt less at all. It would leave him with lifetimes of regrets and _what if what if what if_.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur breathed, not a bit of passion behind it. He let his arms drop to the side and turned away, seemingly in a trance. “Just . . . shut up.”

Merlin wouldn’t have known what else to say, anyway. A pressure had been growing behind his eyes since Arthur’s confession, and bile was pushing its way up from his stomach. He feared either one would break loose if he opened his mouth again.

The walkie on the nightstand crackled into life. Wallace’s voice called for Merlin.

Merlin blinked, attempting composure.   He couldn’t stand this conversation anymore. His head was drowning with no shore in sight. He picked up the walkie and answered, and hated himself for the thickness in his voice. 

“I just got word of somebody that turned up in the hospital last night. Over,” Wallace said.

Merlin shook his head. His mind was still on Arthur, and was thus moving at a snail’s pace. He couldn’t focus, and didn’t understand why Wallace had called him for something so insignificant. Especially an _alive_ something so insignificant. 

“A body?” Merlin asked, half-hoping. He needed to get out the flat. Work was a perfect excuse.

“No, he’s alive,” said Wallace. “Some officers tried to get a statement from him, but he wasn’t making much sense. He said his name was Uther Pendragon. Over.”

Merlin’s breath caught upon hearing the name. As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

Arthur, however, lunged for the walkie and ripped it from Merlin’s hands. “What hospital?” he demanded.

 

///

 

Monotonous beeps sounded from both ends of the room, going off in turn like a pendulum swinging from one side to the other. The air in the hospital ward felt like a solid thing against Arthur’s skin. It itched, too dry, and prodded at him with sharp needles. How could such a sterile stench make him feel so dirty? 

The hospital ward didn’t feel like a real place, completely liminal. The green lights were simultaneously dim and bright. Time was held to different rules here, making it feel too early in the morning and too late at night in the same moment. It was its own warped, bubble of a world, completely divorced from planet earth. 

Arthur jostled after the doctor that was leading him through the mass of hospital beds and thick wires, some of them connected to unconscious people. He swallowed hard, praying Uther was one of the patients in good condition.

Merlin bustled right behind Arthur, so close to his back that he frequently stepped on Arthur’s heels, but Arthur was surprisingly grateful for it.   He was glad for Merlin’s presence now, while the whole world was shrinking. They almost didn’t allow Merlin into the ward. Apparently, it was family only. “He’s my husband,” Arthur pleaded with the receptionist, which felt like an odd thing to say with Gaius standing over his shoulder, and after their conversation just hours previous. All of that was forgotten when the door to the ward swung shut with Gaius still on the other side.

“He was found on Kings Street last night in an alley. A couple wandering by checked to see if he was alright, and he attacked the man,” the doctor said as she peeked down at the clipboard tucked against her chest. “He has a certain amount of memory loss, and I believe that’s what’s leading to his delusion. He didn’t have any ID on him. Without knowing who he was, we had no next of kin to contact.”

“Delusion?” Arthur worried, his pulse leaping against his skin. Perhaps Morgana’s torture hadn’t been of the physical sort. She may have driven Uther mad. Arthur wildly scanned the room they were hustling through. He didn’t see is father anywhere.

The doctor halted, making Arthur abruptly do the same. Merlin crashed into his back.

“He believes he’s a mythical king,” the doctor told them as though it were a bombshell. Arthur, however, breathed a sigh of relief and caught Merlin’s eyes. Perhaps Uther was in his right mind, after all.

“But he’s awake?” Arthur asked.

She nodded. “He’s not been very complacent. We had to sedate him for the nurses’ safety, but he should be ready to wake up. There will be lingering grogginess.” 

At first, Arthur wanted to shout at the doctor for the sedative. What sort of place was this if they didn’t know how to handle their patients? But then he considered his father’s confusion. He must have been terrified, all alone in a new world only to be put in the back of a van by strange men in uniform. After the ordeal he must have gone through with Morgana, he’d be ruthless in his self-defence. The doctor had no choice but to sedate him, Arthur told himself as he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a steadying breath. 

Next to him, Merlin’s skin brushed against his, and grounded him.

“Take me to him,” Arthur said. The doctor nodded sternly, her eyes suggesting that Arthur prepare himself. He tried his best to do so as he was led towards a bed at the edge of the room. The doctor pulled back the thin curtain on the ceiling tracks.

On the other side, Uther lay beneath the covers, looking small and not-quite-right in the light green hospital gown he was wearing.

Arthur took in a rattling breath of that dirty, sterile air. It made his insides feel stale and his head light. He stepped closer to his father’s sleeping form and gave a cursory inspection. He didn’t see any signs of physical damage, save for a fresh bruise blooming on Uther’s jaw, where the man who had found him in the alley must have tried to defend himself. The man had gotten lucky in getting at least one punch in. Arthur didn’t want to see what Uther had done to him in return, or why the ambulance had been called in the first place. 

Still, Uther appeared unharmed, but Arthur couldn’t stop squirming. He would feel better when Gaius took a look at Uther.

“Father?” Arthur’s voice was too tiny, too thick—too _weak_. Uther couldn’t see him like that. He cleared his throat, blinked away the welling in his eyes, and tried again. “Father.” Much better. “It’s Arthur. Are you awake?”

From somewhere far away, he heard the doctor tell Merlin, “I’ll give you two a moment. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork before you leave today—.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said sharply, cutting her off. Arthur could feel his eyes, so watchful and wary, on his spine. The doctor left.

“Father?” Arthur allowed his voice to waver again, because he thought Uther was still asleep. However, Uther’s eyes slowly blinked open. They took longer than they should have to come into focus, probably because of the drugs; but, when they had, they found Arthur instantly.

Uther picked himself up, a dazed and breathless look about him. “Arthur?” he whispered like he didn’t believe his own eyes.

Arthur’s cheeks cracked. He stood against the bed, as close as he could without his knees buckling against the metal frame. “I’m here,” he promised, and held out his hand. Uther grabbed him by the wrist. His grip was more tired than usual, but stronger than it had been in the weeks before his death. Still, he looked as withered and beaten as he had in those days: faded skin, brittle bones, greying hair. He was nothing as Arthur remembered him—as he _chose_ to remember him, as he should be. A king.

Arthur would make him that man again. All Uther needed was to recover from what Morgana did to him. He needed to regain his strength. Arthur told himself there was still hope.

For the first time since Arthur’s return to the world, he felt like everything would be okay.

“Son,” Uther said again in a normal tone now. He propped himself up and grinned up at Arthur. “I did not think—.” Arthur would never know how that sentence was meant to end. Uther’s gaze had flickered behind Arthur, and his expression skewed into something protective and feral.

“ _You_!” he spat with such force that Arthur whipped his neck around as though expecting to find anyone but Merlin. Arthur didn’t understand, until he noticed Merlin’s stance. He looked like he were preparing for a fight. 

Arthur wilted. This was not good.

“Get away from my son!” Uther sneered, all teeth. His grip on Arthur’s wrist tightened, and he yanked him closer.

Arthur nearly toppled over onto Uther’s lap, but he recovered quickly. “Father, it’s alright,” he tried, but he was aware of how panicked he sounded.

“ _Alright_?” Uther echoed with menace. “He has mag—!”

“ _Shhh_!” Arthur begged him loudly, hoping the sound drowned out the rest of the word. He looked around quickly, praying no one had heard. The last thing they needed was suspicion.

“Oh, you remember _that_ , do you?” Merlin groaned, not worried in the slightest that Uther had nearly just revealed his magic to the entire hospital ward. “Good. Then, you’ll also recall how you tried to kill your own son!” 

“How dare you,” Uther seethed, low and threatening.

“Enough!” Arthur yelled, his frustration getting the better of him. Uther glared at him with shock, and Arthur remembered not to be insolent. He played it off by directing a palm at Merlin. “That’s enough, Merlin.”

Merlin’s face blanked. He was wounded, but he wouldn’t let it show. Arthur would deal with that later, just as he’d have to deal with his confession from earlier that day.

Doing his best to silence the sloshing in his stomach, Arthur turned already pleading eyes on his Father and admitted, “I know, Father.” It sounded a lot like an apology, even though it shouldn’t have.

Uther’s temper was rising. Arthur could see it in the way the vein in his forehead was pulsing. He had to explain quickly, to try his best to get a few words in before Uther cut into him.

This was _not_ how Arthur wanted their reunion to go.

“You don’t understand. I trust Merlin,” Arthur reasoned quickly, while still trying to push confidence into his tone. “He’s only ever helped us—and the kingdom. He’s on our side.” 

A look of horror flashed in Uther’s eyes. When it subsided, it gave way to something dangerously close to sadness. Or to mourning, as though all were lost and he didn’t want to accept it, but he finally had against his will.

Arthur wished he would look disappointed instead. At least, Arthur could deal with Uther’s disappointment. He’d had enough experience, after all.

“Come on, Father,” he said softly. “I’m getting you out of this place. We’re going home.”

Uther did not protest. “To Camelot,” he said, relieved.

Arthur felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. “N—No.” Again, he trained the emotion in his voice. “Somewhere else.” 

Uther did not appear to understand. Arthur didn’t have the heart to explain, not yet—no there, where the air was still so suffocating and the steady beeping of the machines blared too loudly, serving as the only measure of time. 

Merlin called the doctor back over and asked to discharge Uther. He took care of all the paperwork as Arthur helped Uther back into the clothes he’d come to the hospital in—his black trousers and the dark leather jacket Arthur always envied. They met Gaius in the waiting room, and Uther was dumbfounded in seeing him there. After the shock wore off, he appeared to be happy to see his old friend, but there was also something pushed about his demeanour. There was no light in his eyes, and his smile was twisted.

Gaius didn’t notice, so Arthur thought maybe he was imagining things. 

Merlin pulled up the Golf to the entrance, and after some assurance, they got Uther into it and drove back to the factory. 

It took some convincing to get Uther into their flat, where he took one look at the sigil Merlin had painted on the floor and lost his temper again. But, eventually, Arthur got him to settle.

Arthur gave Uther their bedroom for the time being, until they could clear out another flat and make it suitable for him. The others may have not put up a fuss because of a little bit of dust, but Arthur wouldn’t allow his father to sleep in such conditions. He needed to rebuild his strength.

Apparently, the sedatives hadn’t worn off as much as Arthur had thought, because Uther slipped back into unconsciousness as soon as he lay down. Gaius came in with his medicine kit and examined Uther for any harm. When he was satisfied, he left Arthur alone in the room with his sleeping father. 

For the first time all day, Arthur relaxed. In the lull of activity, he allowed himself to fall back into the rocking chair from the corner of the room he’d situated next to the bed. He hadn’t expected to sit vigil next to Uther’s bedside when he’d dragged the chair over, but that was what he ended up doing, nonetheless.

Now that he had a moment to breathe, his thoughts turned disquiet. There were so many questions he wanted to ask his father about the Neo camp and Morgana, but that would come in time. For now, Arthur reflected on having Uther back in the first place.

He thought of the day Uther died. Arthur’s birthday. It was his fault. If only he’d been more adamant in not holding the banquet that year, those travelling performers would have never been granted access into the citadel. Odin’s spy would have never gotten his chance to strike. If only Arthur hadn’t given into hosting a birthday event he didn’t even want.

He’d killed both his parents on the same day.

But that was not the last time Arthur saw his father. He thought back to that night in the castle, when he’d set Uther’s spirit free. Arthur did not blame his father for what he’d done in that state. He was not himself, plain and simple. As far as Arthur was concerned, the phantom only had Uther’s visage. 

Why, then, did the ghost’s words still sting?

Uther had been ashamed of the way Arthur ruled his kingdom. His legacy had been laid to waste, no matter how much Arthur tried to do what was right and fair. Perhaps Uther had a point. After all, Arthur had led the city to ruin. At every turn, he was betrayed by those closest to him. Trusting Mordred, Agrivaine, and even Morgana were mistakes.

Arthur was always too trusting.

Perhaps, if he were more like his father, if the wisdom Uther had attempted to impart had stuck in Arthur’s thick skull, Camelot would still be here. They would all be able to go home. 

Without Arthur noticing, hours had gone by. The room had grown dark around him. It was in the in-between hours of dusk, when the sun could still overpower artificial light, but shadows stretched their limbs out far like monsters rousing from hibernation, preparing to reclaim the land.

It was then that Uther, too, woke up. It was slow at first. Arthur, too lost in thought, had hardly noticed it. He’d missed every soft grunt and tensing muscle, until he heard his name. He blinked down at his father.

“Good to have you back with us,” he said, pushing all his thoughts down deep. It was no longer the time or place for them. Instead, he said, “Gaius examined you. There aren’t any signs of damage.” Not physical, anyway, but Arthur would not broach the topic of emotional damage. Uther would only scoff at it and scold Arthur for thinking him so weak. 

Despite his clean bill of health, it took Uther longer to sit up than it normally should have. It only convinced Arthur of the ordeal Morgana and her lackeys must have put him through. He averted his eyes to give Uther privacy until his struggle upright was complete, and took the time to steady himself, too. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Father,” he breathed out, praying Uther would absolve him.

“You are not to blame, Arthur.” However, it didn’t make Arthur feel any better, like he thought it would, but he was grateful.

He looked back up at his father, his vision narrowing in on the bruise on his jaw. How could that be the only wound on him?

“How did you escape Morgana?” Arthur wondered.

Uther’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted. “She had me in—,” he gave a deep exhale that made Arthur’s chest feel hollow, “ _shackles_.” The word had so much regret packed into it. 

He blamed himself for Morgana’s betrayal, Arthur knew. He always had, until the end. She’d broken his heart, and it never healed.

“The next thing I recall was awaking in that strange city,” Uther went on.

Arthur pulled his brows together. It didn’t make any sense. Surely, Morgana wouldn’t let Uther go. He was her advantage over Arthur. Perhaps when Uther had escaped, he’d gone through some sort of trauma, and blocked it from his memory.

Arthur didn’t want to dig that up. His father was back and unharmed; that’s all that mattered.

“What is this place?” Uther asked, looking about the room. “Everything here is so foreign. This isn’t any of the Five Kingdoms.”

“No.” Arthur pressed his lips together and wondered how to begin. He should have planned something to say while Uther was asleep, but he came up blank. In the end, he decided to speak from the heart. “The Five Kingdoms are gone, Father. Camelot . . .” He squared his jaw. “All of them. They’ve been gone for over a thousand years." 

Uther snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I wish I were, but it’s true. You were dead; do you remember that?” 

A look of acceptance passed over Uther’s face. “Of course, I remember dying, son,” he said heavily. His last conscious moments had been in Arthur’s arms. That’s what he was remembering, not the coma that came after, not the actual dying. Just Arthur, and the sacrifice he’d made. The sacrifice Arthur didn’t deserve.

“I was dead, too,” Arthur told him. “So was Morgana. We all were. We’ve been brought back to life.”

“By sorcery,” said Uther with his usual amount of venom contained in the word.

Arthur nodded, even though he wasn’t sure it was that simple. Yes, magic had brought back most of them, but not him. Arthur wasn’t sure who or what had brought him back. Merlin said it was destiny, but who decided such things? And what did they expect Arthur to do? They left him with nothing—no authority, no chance of helping anyone, no hope. Why did they choose him? He was no one, and so very far from all he knew. 

He realised Uther was scrutinizing him. “You haven’t forgotten it is evil?”

Arthur didn’t want to have this conversation, but he couldn’t run from it. Uther wouldn’t allow him to. Bracing himself, he answered genuinely, “No, Father, I haven’t forgotten what you’ve taught me about those who practice magic, nor have I forgotten all the bad it’s done.” 

“And yet you’ve aligned yourself with a sorcerer,” Uther scolded, his voice as sharp as a knife’s edge. Arthur felt it slash at his flesh.

“Merlin is different,” he assured, but it sounded weak even to him. 

“Nonsense. They’re all the same.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur protested, his voice cracking with emotion despite his best effort. He knew Merlin was safe. How could Uther make him doubt that? “You don’t know _him_. All he’s ever done is protect me, Father.”

Uther leaned in closer and, to Arthur’s shock, grabbed Arthur’s hand. He was almost pleading as he said, “Can’t you see what he’s done, Arthur? He’s poisoned your mind. You are not thinking clearly.”

Arthur shook his head forcefully. “This isn’t a trick, Father. You’ll see. You’ll understand.” 

He _had_ to.

“You cannot lose yourself, Arthur,” Uther begged, his eyes going soft with fear. “I cannot lose you.”

All the air was pulled from Arthur’s lungs. He couldn’t imagine what his father was thinking. He’d lost everyone to magic—his wife, his daughter. It was no wonder he feared Arthur meeting the same fate. But Arthur wouldn’t. He would find a way to prove Merlin’s loyalty.

He would find a way to make Uther understand that he would never lose him.

Arthur’s chest felt heavy as a weight and light as a feather in the same moment. He’d never wanted to cause his father such distress, but he cherished Uther’s words. All he’d ever wanted was to know he meant something to Uther, if only a little something. He didn’t have to be irreplaceable in his father’s eyes. He didn’t have to be needed, so long as he was wanted.

He realised all the sunlight was completely gone from the room. 

He fought the pressure in his temples, though he was certain his eyes were turning red. He placed his opposite hand on top of his father’s in silent assurance and said, “Rest, Father.” Extracting himself, he stood up and turned on the bedside lamp. Uther jerked a little as he regarded the thing like it was an enemy.

He would become accustom to the new world and all its traits in time.

“I’ll get you something to eat. Are you hungry?” Arthur asked him, remembering the emptiness of his own stomach. He felt no desire to fill it. Apparently, neither did Uther. He shook his head, and Arthur didn’t want to push. 

He crossed to the door, and paused at the dresser, where the bottle of Merlin’s sleeping pills sat on the surface. Arthur opened it and tipped two blue pills into his palm. It wouldn’t be wise for Merlin to enter the room before Arthur could at least get Uther used to the idea of his magic, so Arthur would bring him the medication. 

“What is that?” Uther asked, his voice piercing through the darkness behind Arthur as clearly as the warming light bulb.

“They’re Merlin’s,” said Arthur, forming a fist around the small pills and placing the bottle back in its place. “They help him sleep.” 

Uther scoffed. “A guilty conscience, no doubt,” he said, not bothering to keep it under his breath. 

It felt like the floor had dropped out from under Arthur. The task of proving Merlin’s loyalty felt so impossible in that moment, but Arthur couldn’t give up.

“Rest,” he said again, and pushed out of the room.

 

///

 

Merlin had been standing by the door, his ear pressed up to the wood, since Arthur had shut it hours ago. It was no use. He heard nothing but mutterings from the other side. A few times, he tried to magically enhance his hearing to eavesdrop, but the building was just too noisy. All he got were titbits of the knights’ conversations on the floor beneath him, or the water sloshing in the pipes. Arthur and Uther’s conversation eluded him.

But he didn’t dare go very far. Ever since they got the call about Uther, Merlin’s stomach had been sour. His wariness merely grew after he’d laid eyes on Uther, who bore no wounds. Something was wrong. Merlin didn’t know what it was, but he could feel it crackling in the air. This had to be some trick or trap. Morgana was planning something. She wouldn’t just let Uther escape. 

Merlin suspected Morgause’s hand in whatever was happening. She and Cenred had mentioned Uther in the Camelot Castle Hotel on the morning Merlin and Arthur rescued his men. What had she said? She would _create_ a roll for Uther if he rose again?

Granted, his queasiness went beyond Uther’s presence. In the quiet space outside the door, Merlin had hours to think about Arthur’s confession that morning. Every time he did, something inside of him plummeted, until he felt like he was spinning outside of his body. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to deny it, even if it didn’t feel real. He’d seen it coming, after all.

He’d just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.

Merlin closed his eyes and imagined a calendar. There were only thirty-six days to go until the first anniversary of their marriage. Only thirty-six days. So much could happen in that time. So much already had. What were thirty-six days, when Merlin had lived for fifteen hundred years? They were nothing. Surely, he and Arthur could at least survive until their anniversary.

And yet, Merlin wasn’t even sure they’d last the week.

Something was making a soft purring sound. Merlin looked down to find Archie rushing up and brushing against his ankles in twisting circles. It must have been long passed his dinnertime. Merlin looked back at the closed door and worried at his lower lip. He didn’t trust Uther enough to leave him alone with Arthur. 

Merlin sighed and scooped Archie up into his arms. “You’re not leaving, too, are you?”

Archie mewed loudly in his hunger.

“Quit yelling at me. I’ll feed you in a minute,” Merlin tried to joke, and scratched behind Archie’s ear. Apparently, Archie wasn’t interested in affection or empty promises. He was on the prowl. He suddenly leapt out of Merlin’s arms and trotted off, probably to find Gwen.

Merlin slumped against the wall. 

Minutes passed, and he was too deep in the abyss to hear Gaius enter the flat. 

“Merlin? Have you been standing here all day?” Gaius asked, half-shocked and half-scolding. Merlin clocked the bowl of stew cradled between his hands. It smelt falsely sweet and savoury, and made Merlin’s mouth water, but his stomach flopped at the prospect of food. It wanted to stay empty, standing in solidarity with the feeling in his chest. 

“Yes,” Merlin admitted with a wince.

Gaius gave him a concerned look and offered him the sludgy-thick stew. “You should eat.”

Merlin was about to protest, but he was grateful for the trouble Gaius had gone through in cooking. Besides, Gaius looked too worried to accept no for an answer. Merlin relieved him of the bowl and nodded thankfully. Gaius seemed satisfied, even though Merlin only stared into the stew and didn’t take a bite. 

He heard Gaius give a deflating exhale through his nose. “Merlin,” he said again, sounding more severe this time. “What is bothering you?” 

“Uther,” Merlin did not hesitate to say, but he kept his voice low, just in case Uther could hear him from the other side of the door. Merlin couldn’t hear them, but he didn’t want to take any chances. 

Gaius raised his chin to show he was listening, and it prompted Merlin to continue. 

“I don’t trust him. Why would Morgana just let him go? And she would never allow him to escape. He’d be caught before he left the Neo base. And even if he did—to end up in London, of all places?” He shook his head. “None of it makes sense.”

“We do seem to have more questions than answers at the moment,” Gaius agreed, “but that does not mean there isn’t a logical explanation.” He fished for Merlin’s eyes in a pitying look. “Are you certain this isn’t about something else?”

Merlin doubted he was referring to Arthur’s kiss with Gwen, or Merlin’s crumbling marriage. He doubted Gaius even knew about that. Merlin knew to what Gaius was referring, even if he hadn’t consciously realised it himself.

Perhaps Gaius was right, Merlin thought. Maybe he was looking for a reason to distrust Uther. Maybe he _wanted_ there to be trouble.

“Arthur will never fulfil his destiny while Uther lives,” Merlin said, recognising the fear he’d been harbouring since Arthur first mentioned his father after their vision quest. “He cares too much about Uther’s opinions. They’ll ruin everything. Arthur will follow Uther’s command before he does what he feels is right.”

Gaius remained silent, pondering.

“I _need_ this to be one of Morgana’s tricks, Gaius,” Merlin admitted, “or else my whole life will be for nothing. I can’t accept destiny would do something like this. What’s the point in bringing Uther back?”

“Yes, but, Merlin, destiny did not bring Uther back,” Gaius reminded him. “Mordred did.”

Merlin swallowed hard. He wanted to say that destiny brought _Mordred_ back, so anything he did must have been part of the plan. In a round about way, destiny was still responsible. 

“Do not worry about things you can’t control, my boy,” Gaius said, placing his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin nearly laughed. He’d been playing with the forces beyond his control all his life.

“Eat,” Gaius urged. “We will have our answers soon enough. In the meantime, you must allow yourself to rest.” 

Merlin forced himself to nod, if only to blow Gaius off. Gaius didn’t look like he believed it one bit, but he gave Merlin’s shoulder one last first squeeze and took his leave. Merlin waited until he heard the flat door close before he sighed. 

And then he jumped, causing some of the stew to slosh out of the bowl and redden his hand. The bedroom door had opened. Arthur was squeezing out of it. When he noticed Merlin, his blue eyes widened in surprise and in question. Merlin’s own eyes were rounded, too.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, closing the door gently behind him.

“I thought you’d want something to eat,” Merlin lied, remembering the stew.

Arthur accepted the answer and settled. He looked down at the bowl with apathy. “I’m not hungry,” he said, which only made Merlin worry more.

“You should eat something. You haven’t all day.”

Arthur’s response was weary when it should have been snippy. “I’m fine, Merlin. Thank you.”

Merlin dropped his shoulders, giving it up as a bad job. His gaze flickered to the door as though it were a prison gate for a savage beast. “How is he?”

Arthur shuffled and crossed his arms. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He’ll be better once he regains his strength. You and I will have to find somewhere else to sleep for now.”

Merlin had no intention of sleeping, not while Uther was there. He’d be a watchdog outside the bedroom door all night if he had to. But he didn’t want Arthur to know that, so he said, “There are plenty of rooms to choose from.”

Arthur nodded distractedly. “You should call Wallace. We need to set up a meeting between my father and his uncle in the coming days.”

Merlin felt that unquiet floating sensation again. “Why?” he bit out, playing dumb. 

Arthur looked shocked again that Merlin didn’t know. “So my father can convince the Commissioner of Morgana’s threat. They can come up with a strategy on how to handle it.” 

There was a burning in Merlin’s chest, but he didn’t know if it was fiery anger or scathing disappointment. “You should be doing that.”

“Merlin,” Arthur began, but Merlin didn’t want to hear an excuse. 

“No, Arthur, don’t,” he growled. “ _You_ are the Once and Future King. _You_ are meant to unite the lands of Albion. I did not wait fifteen hundred years for Uther Pendragon to become king.”

With mounting frustration, Arthur said, “Does it matter who defeats the Neos, so long as it happens? I don’t care about what destiny says, Merlin. All I care about is my people living safely. My father can do that. He’s done it before in Camelot. Camelot wouldn’t have even existed if not for him. Did he not make it the kingdom it was?” 

Merlin grated his teeth. He wanted to scream. Instead, he retorted, “All he did was cause people to live in fear. What makes you think this time will be any different? We cannot displace one tyrant with another. It won’t bring unity—or peace.” 

Arthur looked away and swallowed hard. His gaze was so vulnerable. Merlin hated making Arthur feel that way, but at least he knew he was getting through to Arthur.

He leaned in closer and advised in a whisper, “Arthur, you have seen the people of this world. They don’t need a conqueror. They need someone to save them. They need you.” 

Arthur’s jaw tensed in sadness, in fear, in intense inadequacy.

_I don’t know how to do that, Merlin. I don’t know what to do_ , Merlin could almost hear him screaming. He was letting the low self-esteem Uther instilled in him get the better of him. Uther never raised Arthur to be a king, or to be a free thinker. He raised him to be a soldier, moulded solely to follow orders. The leadership qualities were all Arthur’s doing. They were his true traits, and always at war with what Uther expected of him.

He looked back at Merlin, his gaze glistening. “I’m sorry you wasted your time on me,” he whispered, sounding thick.

Unknown to the rest of the world, Merlin shattered.

“Here,” Arthur said, and pressed two warm blue pills into Merlin’s palm. Like he couldn’t escape fast enough, Arthur left Merlin alone again. 

Merlin stared down at the sleeping pills in one hand, and then to the bowl of stew in the other. He wasn’t going to sleep that night, even if he tried. And he couldn’t follow Arthur to bed—to toss and turn next to him all night.

He couldn’t even look at Arthur right now.

He formed a fist around the pills, squeezing tightly until his skin went red. He was faintly aware of the thumping of his heart, but he felt no pain or pressure in his palm. He couldn’t feel anything.

And then, all at once, he felt rage. 

The emotion swelled larger than his body and broke free in the form of a shout. He threw the ceramic bowl against the wall. It exploded.

 

///

 

Three days later, Mordred stood in the main square of a town a few miles north of the Anglican border. Morgana had contacted him earlier that morning with the promise of joining him in one more day’s time. 

Mordred was grateful for it. He’d only been in the town for a day, and already it was too long. This far from the Neo base in York, there wasn’t much but poverty and farmland. From what Mordred could see, none of the people practiced magic. They were little better than slaves, existing only to raise crops and livestock and send their harvests to York to be processed, pumped with chemicals, and made safe to eat. 

At the very least, it ensured none of the townspeople were keeping any of the harvest for themselves, or else risk sickness or death. They were paid for everything they grew, and given a fraction of the rations back.

_Rations_. Never had anything been truer to a word’s connotation. Mordred didn’t even think of it as food. It was rations—meagre portions eaten to stay alive. He missed the taste of food.

Things had been different in the south, in the Republic of Exeter. Their soil could raise vibrant crops; their water could keep animals healthy for slaughter. That’s where Avalon was, where magic bled into the world and kept the earth alive. The further from Avalon, the deader everything became. 

The southernmost part of Anglia was said to have some of this magic, but not enough to feed their whole population. And Exeter did not share their wealth, not even with the other provinces. Their borders were closed.

Mordred knew. He’d crossed them many times.

Exeter was where he’d first re-entered the world, cold and alone on the shores of the lake. He’d found his way into town, attracting odd looks off his chainmail, as though he were the one out of place. It was the rest of the world that had been wrong, not him.

He stayed in Glastonbury for over a month, sleeping on the streets like he had with his father when he was a child, before learning Nigel Cyrus and his army of magicians, and of the true extent of their power over Britain. 

Exeter was a bubble. It wouldn’t be for long. Anglia would fall, and the other provinces would follow piece by piece.

A group of soldiers jogged past Mordred. They were using the town square for training, as it was more of a field than anything else now. Asphalt roads had long been cracked and overgrown with weeds; buildings didn’t so much as stand as they did wilt and wither without actually crumbling.

Outside of the small town, three farms were spread out over the hills. More people lived crowded in the farmhouses and barns than in the main town.

And now, they were sleeping under the stars, Mordred assumed. The soldiers needed barracks. They needed places to reside while they awaited their queen.

It was only for a few days, Mordred told himself, and the townspeople could have had it a lot worse. They could have been slaughtered instead, like their animals. They got lucky. As long as they stayed in line and remained useful, they would live to see Morgana’s new world.

Something across the square caught Mordred’s attention. A woman, a small child in her lap, was sitting on the side of the battered street. She had a tin in hand, and shook it up and down, though there was nothing clanking inside it. Everyone ignored her—almost everyone. 

Mordred hadn’t even wanted to bring Cenred. Morgause insisted, saying it was better for Mordred to have someone at his right hand, someone they could trust. Mordred scoffed at the very notion of trusting Cenred.

And he’d been right. Cenred had dipped a few coins into the woman’s tin. He said a few words to her that Mordred could not hear, and she said a few words back. Cenred pressed a hand to her child’s hair and tussled the dirty locks playfully before moving on.

Anger rose up in Mordred like a wave. To think Cenred had the audacity to play a hero—with Morgana’s money, of all things. Fuming, Mordred marched across the square, bypassing the training as he went.

Cenred had found the weapons post. He lifted a sword and tested its balance. 

“What was that?” Mordred demanded.

Cenred barely glanced up at him. He put the sword down and picked up another to inspect. “I’m afraid I can’t say. If you don’t know to what you’re referring, how can I?” His smile was toothy, dazzling and indolent. But, then again, he had always been used to being top of the food chain.

He wasn’t anymore.

“You gave that beggar money. Why?”

Cenred drove the point of the sword into the dirt and folded both hands around the pommel. He shrugged. “We drove her from her home. Does that not require some compensation?”

“The compensation is her life, and that of her child,” Mordred reminded him.

To this, Cenred chuckled. It was an airy thing that sounded a lot like mocking and hatred. “I thought you’d be sympathetic to their lot in life, Druid boy.”

He lifted his brows to insight Mordred further.

And Mordred was certainly incited, despite how much he tried not to be. It was best to remind Cenred of his place quickly, before he got any false ideas of his role. 

“What right have you to question me?” Mordred challenged. “I am the queen’s right hand. _You_ are no better than a servant trying to be a king again. Is that why you gave that woman money? You wish to be loved, and the poor and downtrodden are the easiest targets? Don’t waste your efforts. You were unloved when you _were_ king, and you will be unloved now that you’re no one.” 

There was a strange, sadistic rush in finally saying it. He’d been biting his tongue for so long in the presence of Morgana or Morgause. But they weren’t there, and he felt liberated by it in that moment.

Finally, he could assure Cenred that he was watching his every move, constantly looking over his shoulder for a knife to the spine. 

Cenred eyes had gone dark and mutinous. Mordred clocked the sword he was still leaning on, but he knew Cenred would not use it. At least, not out in the open. He was a coward.

Mordred stepped in closer to him, daring him to strike. “Morgause may think you obedient, but you don’t have my trust.”

“For what do I want your trust?” Cenred hissed back. “Morgause tells me you were once a knight in Arthur’s court, the very man who hunted the Druids, before you came to Morgana. Perhaps it is I who should be questioning _your_ loyalty, Good Sir Knight, if it is indeed so changeable.” 

It took a lot of effort for Mordred to control himself in that moment. An old, phantom wound in his chest ached. Cenred knew nothing of what Mordred had gone through in Camelot: the lies that always kept him looking over his shoulder, the suspicion placed on him that made him second guess his every move, the betrayal from his friends, the loss of his love—of himself. Cenred knew nothing!

He balled his fists tight at his sides, wishing he could choke the life out of Cenred. He couldn’t—because doing so would actually kill him, and Morgause would not like that. 

Not all of Morgana’s soldiers had dropped their blood into the Cup of Life. She said she would learn from her previous mistakes. If the Cup was emptied and the immortal soldiers perished, there would still be fighters left standing.

Cenred’s blood was not mixed into the Cup. He had volunteered to remain mortal. Mordred only saw this as one more reason not to trust him. 

Instead of killing him, Mordred said, “I’d rather be a disgraced knight than a dethroned monarch. Remember who overthrew you the first time, King. She commands you now, and you will do _whatever_ she commands.”

It was a threat. Cenred knew it was a threat. He may have put on a tough face, but Mordred knew he’d cut him deeply. Cenred knew his place now.

“Understood?” said Mordred. He meant, _I’ll kill you if you ever betray us._  

“Understood,” Cenred growled. He meant, _I’ll kill you if you try._

Mordred was confident he was the quicker draw. Cenred’s weapon was a blade; Mordred’s weapon was his hands.


	10. Chapter 10

The worst thing about Merlin’s having his full power back was the frequent, sudden, and frankly violent jolts he was prone to. They were similar to the ones he’d gotten when the Old Religion was building its power again—the same surges that put him in hospital in the first place. The only difference now was the intensity. They were just as frequent and sudden as he remembered, but much more violent.

Or perhaps time had dulled the memory of the pain.

He thought not. It was no longer just the Old Religion using him to spread its tendrils through the earth, water, and air and making him feel as though he were being pulled in every direction at once until he feared it’d rip him apart. It was no longer simply the air being knocked from his lungs as Avalon bore a new creature of magic into existence, stealing his oxygen so that the creature could breathe its first. 

There was something else now, pure and powerful. When it happened, it felt as though his skin was bursting and his insides were made of razors. It never lasted long, but the recovery from it took hours. 

Someone was stealing magic from the Old Religion in copious quantities. Morgana. Merlin knew her bomb caused the sensation. Every time she set off the weapon, Merlin was in the blast zone. But there was something he feared more than the pain, which was only manageable because it was impermanent. He feared that it was becoming stronger each time—stronger, and closer. 

In the recent week, Morgana’s troops had been on the warpath in Anglia. Every town they’d marched on had fallen to them, undeterred by the small Anglican army. According to the news bulletin, they’d reached the capital of Gloucester. According to Wallace, it was rumoured that Darby was sending troops to Anglia’s aid. 

“They’ll be slaughtered,” Arthur had worried. “Let my father speak with your uncle. Give us men. We’ll ride out and meet Morgana’s troops.”

Nothing ever became of it. The Commissioner wouldn’t budge until the Neos were on his doorstep. 

Arthur felt the tremors of Morgana’s weapon, too, if only in his mind. He tried to downplay it by feigning annoyance at Merlin’s visceral jolts. He tried to tell everyone, even himself, that Merlin was merely overreacting. “Did you get another paper cut, Merlin? Don’t be such a girl,” he’d tease. Merlin saw the real fear in his eyes, quickly shielded but remaining in the space between them. Arthur’s palm on Merlin’s shoulder always lingered longer than it should have. 

Both their fears came true one late afternoon on a Tuesday.

They were gathered in the flat Merlin and Arthur had been staying in since Uther’s return. The last few days had involved a lot of pacing the floors and snipping in aggression by those of them less accustomed to waiting. Mainly Arthur. So, Merlin thought he’d put their downtime to good use.

If they were all going to live in this world, it was high time they understood it.

Or, at least, it was time they understood a galaxy far, far away. Merlin couldn’t have them stick around if they couldn’t make references to his favourite films. Of course, Arthur had seen them at least twice before. Han was his favourite, of course, but since his first viewing at the cinema all those years ago, Merlin preferred Luke. Especially in the third one. Luke’s struggle with the Dark Side, his effort to control his anger and emotion, the evil Emperor’s sway over him, and his triumph as he honed his abilities. Luke’s journey from farm boy to master of the Force always struck a chord with Merlin.

“Merlin, hurry up, will you? We’ll start without you!” Arthur called across the room from his place on the sofa, sandwiched between Leon and Percival. Merlin let out a heavy sigh from the kitchen counter. 

Gwaine tossed up a handful of popcorn into the air and tried to catch them all in his open mouth. He didn’t get one, no matter how he swivelled. Apparently, he and Elyan were in some kind of competition, and Elyan was winning. But, no matter who won, Merlin was the real loser. He was the one who had to clean all the allusive kernels out of the cracks between the cushions and in the dusty, dark crevice between the floor and the sofa. 

“You don’t even know how to work the VCR,” Merlin shot back, to which Arthur rolled his eyes. “Or how to make a decent cuppa—Which is why I’m taking so long!”

“All you have to do is ask for help, Merlin. I know how difficult it is for you to perform basic functions, like carry a mug across the room.”

“Oi! Five mugs! _Two_ hands!”

“Three _Star Wars_ films! You’re the one making us watch you’re so-called favourite—Merlin?”

Merlin heard nothing more. A wire ribbon of searing pain wrapped itself around his skull. He dropped the mugs in his hands, sending them crashing to countertop. He didn’t notice the scalding heat of the water redden his fingers. Both hands flew to his forehead and skewed his blurring vision shut. No matter how tightly he clutched himself, the pain wouldn’t subside. His ears rung with it. His knees wobbled in a threat to knock him off his legs.

Later, he remembered hearing Arthur call his name. In the moment, he felt Arthur’s hands grasp him. They were warm and solid and real—always comforting and tender, despite being war-torn and calloused. The heat coming off them ebbed through Merlin’s body, slowly chasing away the pain. 

Arthur tried to stand Merlin upright. Merlin only groaned and withered against his chest. His ear pressed against him, he heard how quickly Arthur’s heart was raging. Merlin tried to steady himself. He blinked his eyes open to the subdued light, like he was looking at the sun from under water.

“Get Gaius!” he heard Arthur throw over his shoulder. Leon flew out of the flat immediately.

Merlin shook his head and leaned away. His temples were pulsing. Every inhale felt like he was breathing fire. “’m okay,” he assured, but Arthur didn’t buy it. It was the worst jolt Merlin had gotten so far. 

“What the _hell_ was that?” Arthur demanded, and Merlin winced, still sensitive to sound. Arthur saw it and forced in a steadying breath. He couldn’t afford to panic. “For god’s sake, Merlin, you’d better learn to control this before it—.”

“Kills me?” Merlin teased, pushing a weak smile.

“It isn’t funny.” 

“Arthur, perhaps he should sit down,” Elyan suggested, and Merlin realised how pale he must have looked. 

Arthur grabbed Merlin by the arm and pulled him to the chair, uninterested in any of Merlin’s protests. He pushed Merlin down onto the armchair, still littered and lumped with Gwaine’s popcorn, and knelt down in front of him. He kept his a hand planted on Merlin’s knee, and Merlin was grateful not to be left without his touch. It chased the monsters away, even when Merlin was too weak to run.

Arthur inspected Merlin intensely, as though he knew what he were looking for. Merlin followed his eyes as they jerked up and down, back and forth.

“Where the hell is Gaius?” Arthur growled.

“I’m alright,” Merlin tried again. Arthur had gone as white as sheet. It _must_ have been a very bad jolt, worse than the rest, if Arthur had forgotten himself enough to be outwardly worried.

The door opened, and Leon came through, Gaius, medical kit in hand, Gwen, and Lancelot behind him.

“How bad was it?” Gaius asked, bee-lining to Merlin. Arthur’s touch slid away as he made room for Gaius, and Merlin finally noticed the extent of the dulled, pulsing pain. Cement lined his organs until he couldn’t feel them anymore. Slowly, he was becoming used to it. It would die away soon enough.

“It wasn’t—,” he began to answer, but Arthur’s voice rose above his.

“The worst so far.”

Gaius reached into his medical kit and pulled out a hand torch. Briefly, Merlin was happy that Gaius was using the kit he’d put together for him, until he was blinded by a concentrated light to the pupil. Merlin blinked rapidly on reflex, and saw stars as Gaius moved to his left eye. 

When his sight evened out, he saw Gaius’ brow was frowning. “I see no sign of damage,” he reported, but produced a tissue from his kit and handed it to Merlin. “Here, my boy.” Merlin blinked again, not sure what to do with it. 

Frustrated, Gaius said, “Your nose, Merlin.” 

Still unclear, Merlin pressed the cotton to his nose. When he pulled it away, a speck of red stood out against the clean white. When had that happened?

“You _must_ learn a way to control this, Merlin,” Gaius urged. “They’re becoming worse every time.”

Merlin shook his head. His pain was the least of their worries. It was the cause of it that was troubling. “It’s Morgana. She set off another bomb. They’re getting more powerful.” 

“Yes, but first we must deal with matters we can control.” 

Merlin didn’t want to hear it. He looked at the television, with its solid blue screen waiting to burst into life with a VHS. What were they doing? They couldn’t afford to pretend Morgana was less of a threat than she was. They had to do something.

If the Commissioner wouldn’t fight, they’d go to another province. Maybe the Midlands. They’d find a way to speak with Darby. They’d get their army. They couldn’t just sit back anymore.

His gaze swept upward to meet Arthur’s. If Morgana got her way, he’d never see those eyes again. He couldn’t live without them again, without remembering their exact shade of blue. “We have to stop her.”

The muscles of Arthur face tensed like he was about to bellow a battle cry.

_For the love of Camelot._

Camelot was gone, but the fight remained, and the words echoed through Merlin’s mind.

_For the love of Camelot. For the love of Arthur._

“We need to find out where she is and where she’s headed next,” Arthur decided. “We’ll ride out to meet her.”

“Arthur, we haven’t the numbers,” Gwen reasoned.

“If the Commissioner wants to wait until she marches on London, fine, but we can’t any longer. Not while she grows in power.” Arthur glanced at Merlin again, taking in the state of him. Again, he paled. 

Gwen stayed patient and graceful, ever so. The head to Arthur’s heart. “Even so, if her weapon is as powerful as we think, you’ll be dead in moments. Before meeting her head-on, we must have a defence against her weapon.” 

“We need a way to destroy it,” Lancelot agreed.

“How? You saw it, Lancelot!” Arthur challenged, and swung his hand out to gesture at Merlin. “Any attempt of Merlin’s to stop it only made it more powerful! The only chance of destroying it is killing _her_ , and I already have the means to do that!”

Merlin’s stomach flopped worse than it had before. Arthur was serious. He’d charge in alone if he had to.

“We won’t get within a hundred yards of her,” Lancelot retorted.

Arthur scoffed. “Not if we don’t try.” 

“Stop it!” Merlin burst, recapturing their attention. “They’re right, Arthur. You won’t get anywhere close to her while she still has the weapon. She let you go once; she wouldn’t again if she thought you were a threat. We need to find a way to destroy the weapon first.”

“I doubt the answer to that will be in your journals, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin collapsed against the cushions. Arthur may have had a point. “It’s pure magic. It’s the Old Religion. There must be a way I can control it,” he considered with determination. 

Again, Arthur made a sound that was halfway a laugh and halfway a bark. “You can’t even control it _now_!” His words weren’t meant to be scathing. He was just frustrated. But they shamed Merlin anyway, and made him feel useless. 

He wanted to hide, to shut himself away until he divined an answer. He would have done anything for a person wiser than he to tell him what to do, or at least to point him in the right direction.

“I may have a solution,” came a soft, lullaby tone from near the windows. At first, Merlin thought it was an echo in his own head, but everyone else jumped upon hearing it. Swords were swiftly drawn.

Balinor was framed against the sunlight peaking through the cracks in the curtains. How strange he looked next to the television, but how right he seemed tinted in blue light.

“Balinor,” Gaius gasped, his jaw unhinged in spellbound disbelief. 

“Wait, I know you,” Arthur added, his brow pinched in thought. He pointed at Balinor when he remembered. “You’re that dragon lord. You . . .” As his voice trailed off, his gaze flashed back to Merlin. 

“He died,” Arthur said firmly.

“So did you,” Merlin pointed out.

He had enough strength to stand up and cross the room to his father. He wished Balinor was a solid thing he could embrace him. He often wished it.

“Another one of your ghosts, Merlin?” Arthur accused.

“He’s my dad.”

“And I’ve come to offer guidance, Merlin,” said Balinor. “There may be a way to stop Morgana’s weapon.” 

Merlin felt Arthur’s pulse jump with anticipation. “What is it? Do you have it?” 

Balinor looked at him over Merlin’s shoulder and shook his head. “I do not. But I can summon the one with the means of giving it to you.” He looked at Merlin again. “You must know, it is only a path to answers, not the answer itself. You must find that for yourself.” 

Merlin nodded, even though his nerves swam with the feeling that, whatever this path was, it was to be a dangerous one. But if it meant Arthur didn’t rashly try to take on Morgana single-handedly, Merlin would walk it until his feet bled. “What is it?” 

“There is a man,” Balinor began, “who is the keeper of the Crystal Cave.” 

“Taliesin,” Gaius supplied, making it sound like a question. Merlin remembered him, the man who was not a man anymore. He was a ghost, like Balinor was a ghost, like Freya and Kilgharrah. In his youth, it seemed like such an impossible thing, to see something both dead and alive at the same time. Now, phantoms were his greatest friends. 

“You know of him?” Balinor queried, but didn’t ask for an explanation. “He will be able to help you gain the knowledge you seek.”

Merlin thought there was much the Crystal Cave could have helped him with, only, “The Crystal Cave is gone. It hasn’t existed for a long time.” Was it possible it, too, had returned with the Old Religion?

“Not physically, but its magic is eternal. It is no longer just one place, Emrys. You of all should know its power can never die,” Balinor reminded him in some strange paternal lesson to a son that had forgotten how to be young.

“I thought the Crystal Cave was a myth,” Arthur said. “My father searched for it. He never found it.”

“Uther Pendragon meant to do it harm. It would never reveal itself to him,” Balinor said, and there was still a touch of resentment in his tone. _Uther Pendragon_ was a curse—filthy, heinous words.

Arthur squared himself defensively. “And will its caretaker reveal himself to me?” 

“You are the Once and Future King,” was the answer, as though it were an answer at all.

If it were possible, Arthur tensed even more. But, he ordered, “Then, bring him here.”

Balinor looked again to Merlin, and Merlin looked back, a secret language passing between them. Balinor was never a man of very many words, and Merlin had learned to read him by his eyes alone. Merlin nodded, both asking permission and giving it. Balinor bowed his head slightly and disappeared.

Or, at least, Merlin _thought_ he disappeared. It was hard to tell, because another man now stood in his place. Had he been there the whole time? Merlin was both convinced of Taliesin’s presence throughout his conversation with Balinor and sure he hadn’t been there at all.

“Hello, Emrys,” said the memory of leathery skin hidden by a pure white beard and light eyes.

As Merlin tried to catch his bearings, Arthur appeared over his shoulder. The others remained back a few steps.

Taliesin looked at Arthur and inclined his head with reverence. “King Arthur.”

To this, Arthur gaped as though he’d never heard the title before. He hadn’t been called that in a long time.

The title made Merlin forget everything else. It was a dream from the past and a call towards the future.

“You’ve seen something in the Crystals?” Merlin asked. “A way to stop Morgana’s weapon?”

Taliesin shook his head. “They have not revealed such knowledge to me, Emrys, but I do not seek it. You do. You must ask the Crystals yourself.”

It wasn’t something Merlin wanted to do. Every time he sought answers from the Crystals, it ended in disaster. The future was not a toy he wanted to play with, and the scattered fragments of vision the Crystals provided played only games. It would be easier if Taliesin interpreted them for him, but he knew there was no use asking.

He’d have to dive in headfirst. 

“Then, take me to them,” he decided.

“I cannot. The Crystal Cave has been gone for many centuries,” Taliesin said. He levelled his upturned fist and opened it to reveal what was clasped inside: a tiny, grooved crystal. It was jagged but round, and about the size of an amulet someone might wear around their neck. “This is all that remains.”

He reached out further, wordlessly offering the crystal to Merlin. Merlin took it and studied it with the proper amount of reverence. Arthur peered over his shoulder at the crystal like it might spring to life and attack them. Gaius, ever the scholar, came closer and leaned in with narrowed eyes to see it better. Everyone else seemed to stretch themselves taller to catch a glimpse.

“All the Crystals’ power was transferred into this,” Taliesin explained. “It contains every prophecy and every memory the Crystals bore.”

Upon further inspection, he didn’t see any smooth surface on the crystal. It was lined and pebbled throughout. It would be difficult making out images within it. “How am I supposed to see anything with this?” he asked.

Taliesin looked humoured, even though he did not smile. In fact, his expression remained quite neutral. Still, something about him suggested _humoured_. “I do not believe the Emrys must ask such a question.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and held the crystal up to the light. All heads followed the motion. “Right, right. _The knowledge is inside of me_. If I have a penny for every time a mystical cave-dweller said that to me, I’d be—.”

When he looked back down, Taliesin had disappeared.

Apparently, everyone else had been too captivated by the crystal to notice him leave. However, Merlin doubted he’d let anyone see him fade from existence, anyway. 

“Where did he go?” Arthur demanded in a royal huff.

Merlin dropped his shoulders and muttered at the place where Taliesin had stood, “It’s always the Irish goodbye with his lot.”

It didn’t matter. Taliesin was gone, if he’d ever actually _been_ in the first place. And, since the last of the Crystals was now in Merlin’s possession, he was probably never coming back. His job was done. After centuries, longer than even Merlin could count, the old sorcerer could pack up and holiday somewhere warm. Or maybe he’d fizzle out of reality for good, and go wherever people went after they left it. If Taliesin didn’t want to waste his last moments in the world with a grand farewell speech, if he wanted to leave quietly, Merlin couldn’t blame him. 

“Okay, this needs a spell to be activated,” Merlin said, turning around to face the others. He held the crystal up in his palm. “I think I know it. Probably. It will probably just come to me. It usually does.”

He was just about to close his eyes and say the archaic words when Gaius interrupted him.

“Wait, Merlin, you heard what Taliesin said,” he began in his concerned tone, or as Merlin once liked to call it, his _you’re about to do something stupid, Merlin,_ tone. “This crystal holds immense power. There’s no telling whether or not you can control it. What you see may be too much for one man alone.” 

It almost made Merlin want to laugh. Instead, he stared down at the crystal—it was more of a pebble, really—with a bitter grimace that might have passed as a smile. The crystal was such a small thing, barely a weight in his hand.

“I’ve seen quite a lot alone,” he reminded Gaius.

To this, Gaius thinned his lips. He almost seemed guilty, as though Merlin’s life was his fault. In that moment, it struck Merlin how _young_ Gaius was. He never thought that would have ever occurred to him. 

“Not all at once,” said Gaius. He had a point.

“I agree,” Arthur said adamantly. He reached forward in attempt to snatch the crystal from Merlin as he ordered, “You’re not doing this.”

Merlin half-turned, half-leaned away. He cupped his other hand over the crystal to guard it from Arthur. “ _Yes_ , I am.” It wasn’t an argument. He said it matter-of-factly. “This is our best chance of finding out how to defeat Morgana." 

“No, we’ll find another way.” Arthur went for it again.

Merlin resisted. “And in the time it takes to do that, Morgana will have killed more people.” 

“Arthur, Merlin is right,” Gwen cut in from her place on the armchair. She’d been watching events unfold with a cool demeanour and interested eyes. She’d already weighed the pros and cons, and she’d reached her decision—the one she thought logical and just.

She’d always been so decisive. It’s part of what made her a great queen, Merlin recalled.

Arthur, however, seemed to forget Gwen’s level head. His eyes swept to her as though she were insane.

“If Merlin believes he can handle this, I trust him,” she explained.

Merlin smirked to himself, feeling smug. 

“It could make him go mad!” Arthur shouted, losing his temper. He was just worried, an emotion that always presented itself as anger for Arthur. 

“Already done that,” Merlin reminded him casually. “Really, when it happens once, it sort of diminishes the threat.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes—actually, he rolled his whole head—as he looked back at Merlin. “No. Absolutely not,” he said resolutely.

Merlin dropped his shoulder again, this time in annoyance.

“Perhaps we should take a consensus,” Gwen offered. “All in favour?” She lifted her hand as she said it.

Merlin shot an arm high above his head eagerly. He felt Lancelot’s dark eyes studying him intensely as he made up his mind. Then, he, too, raised a hand. Hesitantly, Elyan and Gwaine did the same.

“No! There’s no consensus! He’s not doing it!” Arthur boomed.

Merlin let his arm drop. “That’s not very democratic, your highness.”

“ _Mer_ lin!”

“You will not do this,” came a dark voice from the flat’s door. No one had seen it open. Uther, looking pale and damp with sweat from exertion, said, “There shall be no consensus. We will not use sorcery.” His voice probably didn’t have quite the _oomph_ of authority he was going for.

Merlin thought Uther was sleeping. He must have woken when Leon ran upstairs to get Gaius.

“Oh, well, we know _his_ vote,” Merlin murmured dryly. 

“Father, you should be resting,” Arthur said, his voice softer now. Merlin hated it. Arthur gestured to Merlin, his hand hovering. “Merlin isn’t going to do anything. We’re going to find another way.”

Yes, Merlin _definitely_ hated it. Arthur was placating Uther. Uther shouldn’t have even been there! He was only getting in the way of Arthur’s success.

Merlin let out a breath of defeat. “Fine,” he conceded. “If you don’t want me to do it, I won’t.”

Arthur looked relieved. He let out a breath of his own. “Good. Thank you, Merlin. Give Gaius the crystal.”

Merlin nodded. He was just about to reach for Gaius when his eyes swept to the back of the group. “What’s _that_?” he said with just the right amount of worry and urgency in his tone.

Everyone fell for it.

Merlin clasped the crystal in his fist, skewed his eyes shut, and let his lips find the incantation.

And then, there was nothing.

No. There was _everything_.

 

///

 

“ _Idiot_!” Arthur shouted. He didn’t know whether to be furious or terrified. Terror won.

He went to leap for Merlin, to tear the crystal from his palm, but Uther somehow appeared at his side with more speed than should have been possible. Though out of breath, he held Arthur back and demanded, “Do not touch him!”

Arthur struggled to get free. 

“Listen to your father, Arthur,” Gaius told him. “It’s best to leave him be.”

Arthur grudgingly accepted it.

Merlin had not moved. He was standing completely still, not even swaying, for what felt like a full minute. The entire room held its breath.

And then Merlin’s eyes shot wide open. They were glowing a steady gold. They didn’t fade back to their normal blue. They stared blankly. He looked like he was in a trance.

Both Lancelot and Gwen stepped forward, watching Merlin intently. Now, they looked concerned. Arthur wanted to scream at them for agreeing with Merlin in the first place. He wanted to blame them for what was happening, to tell them their concern came too late. But it wasn’t their fault. It was Merlin’s.

Arthur should have seen the trick coming.

At first, Merlin’s expression was just as blank as his eyes. But then his jaw began to twitch. Then, it began to quake. His mouth twisted in what Arthur could only describe as horror. His brow pinched in what looked like sorrow. His teeth were clenched in what could only be pain.

His entire body started to tremble and convulse. 

Arthur felt weak. He fought back the desire to grab Merlin and shake him awake. He clenched his fists to stop himself from acting on the impulse.

But they were clenched nowhere near as tightly as Merlin’s. Hung at his side, Merlin’s knuckles had gone passed white. They were red with tension. The skin around his fist was flushed, as well, and the tendons in his wrists dimpled. Blood trickled from beneath his nails and through the cracks between his fingers on the hand that held the crystal.

And then he stopped everything. He let go of his fists. The crystal should have dropped, but white powder sprinkled down instead. Merlin’s eyes stopped glowing as quickly as if a switch had been flipped. His body fell limply to the floor with a thud.

Arthur called his name again. He fell to his knees over Merlin and tried to awaken him. Lancelot and Gwaine were at his side, too. Gwen was standing above them, scanning Merlin for signs of physical damage. Gaius bent next to Arthur and checked Merlin’s pulse. He was trying to act calm and professional, but Arthur saw the feint tremor in Gaius’ gnarled hands.

“Is he—?” Gwaine worried, the last word choked in his throat.

Gaius merely continued to stare. The sorrow lining his face was so telling, but Arthur wouldn’t accept it. “No,” he denied, his jaw shaking with white-hot anger. Or fear. Arthur had never felt anything like it before. He’d been scared plenty of times, but this was different. It was paralyzing.

“He can’t be! It’s not possible!” he shouted at Gaius, raising his voice with every word until he became frantic. “He _can’t_ die! Do something! Fix him! _Now_!”

“Arthur,” Gwen whispered, tears in his voice, like she had already given up. She reached for him. He jerked away. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted Merlin.

“Merlin!” he yelled at the still body beneath him. He gripped Merlin’s shirt, and the fabric twisted as his fists shook with rage. “Stop this right now! Wake up! You have to _wake_ —!” His voice cracked around the final word, and it was like it had broken a floodgate. Everything rushed to Arthur at once.

It wasn’t anger causing him to shake anymore. His eyes burned. He was hyper aware of his heart pounding in his chest, overextending itself as it beat for two. Arthur wished it would stop. He couldn’t find the air.

But Merlin could. He took in a deep breath. Arthur felt it the oxygen in his lungs, as though Merlin breathed for them both. 

Merlin’s eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused at first, but they quickly found Arthur. 

Arthur felt every muscle in his body relax, until he saw the look Merlin was giving him. Merlin looked desperate and afraid and alone. He looked more lost than Arthur had ever seen him. 

Before Arthur realised he’d done it, he collapsed against Merlin into a hard kiss. If Merlin needed more air to breathe, he could have Arthur’s. If his heart needed more beats, Arthur would give his own. Merlin could have it all. Arthur had forgotten everything else—everyone else. The only thing that mattered was ensuring Merlin stay alive.

_Don’t ever leave me again_ , Arthur thought furiously. Even though he hadn’t said it aloud, he was sure Merlin got the message.

When Arthur had no more air to give, the kiss broke. Merlin was looking up at him like he was the relieved one. Once, Arthur had come back from the dead for Merlin. Now, Merlin returned the favour. 

Arthur calmed himself down now that he knew Merlin was alive, and he wasn’t hallucinating. And then he remembered the others in the room.

He blinked in horror. His gut twisted and tore. Merlin had remembered it, too, because he quickly looked to Gaius, pleading for help. Then, he turned to Gwen in apology.

Arthur didn’t want to look at her. He already knew what he’d see: something between shock and betrayal. He was too afraid to face it.

His eyes were drawn up to his father instead. Uther was seething, beyond words. Arthur looked away. He had to face Gwen. He had to. He couldn’t.

But he owed it to her.

Doing his best to prepare himself, he met her eyes. Every emotion he’d expected to see was written on her face—except for one. Shock. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

Arthur could not school his features. Everyone but Gwen fell away. He didn’t know how to make it right. What could he say? What could he do?

Nothing.

He was out of time. Gwen picked herself off the floor. Everyone in the room parted for her as she steadily made for the door.

 

///

 

Morgana still had stars in her eyes. The weapon she had sent over Gloucester had been the most radiant by far, a burning sun made of the energy of hundreds of thousands of magicians across Britain. She had stood on the tallest building of the city and let the weapon free as her army battled in the streets below. It sent its sparks in a million different directions and lit the city in a glorious fire.

It was rumoured that Prime Minister Simmons had escaped the city to take refuge in the Midlands. The capital had been on high alert. It had been evacuated hours before as a precaution, and whatever non-magical citizens now remained were dead. Darby’s feeble troops were dead now, too, but more would come. 

Morgana would welcome them.

She sat in the PM’s former office in the city council building, and awaited reports from her troops. They were scouring the city for anyone left alive, searching for more recruits. There had to be hundred in a city of that size. Morgana remained optimistic most of them would join her without too much persuasion. 

The doors opened, and Mordred and Morgause pooled into the room. Morgana stood to welcome them. 

“What news?”

“So far, we’ve rounded up nearly sixty magicians. I expect at least two dozen more,” Mordred reported triumphantly. He had grime, black and red in colour, caked onto his face. It was streaked with dried sweat around his forehead and temples. His eyes stood out amongst the dirt, as piercing as icicles.

The lining of his posture was victorious. Morgana allowed herself a smile. She was pleased, and why shouldn’t she be? Perhaps Anglia wasn’t a hard battle to win, but she was merely warming up. So was her weapon. Taking this province to gain more numbers had been a strategic move. And, if Mordred was anything to judge by, it seemed to boost morale.

“Excellent. And what of those without magic?”

“We will weed them out from the others easily,” Morgause schemed, a twinkle in her eyes. She was going to like weeding out the impostures very much. 

“See that you do.” Morgana was not interested in non-magicians bargaining for their lives with promises of learning magic. She could not afford to allow such weakness into her ranks.

She turned her eyes back to Mordred. The battle may be over, but there was still a fight to be won. “Any word from our friend in London?” 

“None yet,” he told her. “But your meeting is still scheduled for tonight. He knows this. He will be there.” 

He better be. If he didn’t show, that meant he was dead. Morgana wouldn’t mind such a thing if it affected Arthur, but she still had use for her spy.

“Does Arthur suspect?”

Mordred shook his head, his triumph growing. “I’ve had eyes on Arthur and his men for days. From what I’m told, they suspect nothing.” 

Morgana was glad for it. Maybe, this time, things would remain in her favour.

“When Morgause and I go to London tonight, you should come with us,” Morgana told him.

She could tell he wanted to take her up on the offer. He wanted a first row seat to Arthur’s destruction, and she could not deny him that. Still, he cordially refused. “I should remain here with the troops.” 

Morgana made her away around the table, starting in the direction of the door. “Oh, I think the troops can handle themselves for an hour.” Or, at the very least, Malcolm could handle them.

Mordred scampered next to her. “Really?” 

On her other side, Morgause glided into place.

“Yes,” Morgana promised. She threw the doors open again. “Now, shall we meet the new recruits?”

 

///

 

Merlin was perched on the windowsill of his new bedroom. One leg was extended in front of him and the other firmly on the floor for balance. The curtain was open. He looked down at the sporadic city lights like it was an ocean on fire. His temple was leaned against the cool surface of the glass.

He felt better, strangely, than he had for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t so much happiness or contentment. He felt quiet.

Inside of him and around him, the Old Religion settled in like it had finally come home. He stopped fighting it, and let it become his skin. It still pulled him across the world, across oceans and land, but it didn’t hurt so much anymore. The power of the Crystals balanced it. It stretched and strained him, so much so that he was steady.

He allowed the currents of magic to take him wherever they sailed, to the cold heights of the atmosphere or the warm bodies of all the living creatures under the soil. Why had he ever fought it?

There were footsteps, familiar in the way their weight met gravity. As though the sun had decided to rise early, Merlin felt its rays warm his skin. He turned his head slowly upon Arthur’s entrance.

Arthur gave him a soft look, worn down but relieved. It was the look he wore on the nights after a battle or a tourney, or after every discussion with his father. 

“How did he take it?” Merlin asked.

Arthur breathed out in a way that told Merlin he’d spent the last hour doing more listening than talking. “He insists you’ve put some kind of spell over me,” he said upon walking further into the room. He rubbed the tired from his eyelid with his index finger, which accomplished nothing other than reddening his eye. “I tried to explain. He only became more adamant when he found out we’re married.” 

Merlin would have paid money to see the look on Uther’s face upon hearing the news. Or, he would have if he hadn’t been so surprised himself. “You told him?”

Arthur nodded, forcibly not making a big deal of it. It shouldn’t have been a secret, after all. Merlin tried to remind himself of that. 

“Look on the bright side,” Arthur groaned, “my father’s too distracted about me marrying a sorcerer to notice I’ve married a man. Can you imagine his rage if you didn’t have magic?” 

“No, I think the fact that you married your servant would be next, and then that you married a man. No matter how you spin it, there are multiple layers of disappointment.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, clearly not wanting to think of it anymore. Merlin didn’t want to, either, especially because Uther’s opinion didn’t matter to him. But there was another’s who did.

“Did you talk to Gwen?” he asked, dropping both his gaze and his voice.

He heard Arthur freeze, and then exhale again in that tired way. “No. I don’t think she wants to see me.”

That couldn’t have been true. Gwen was probably waiting for Arthur to explain himself. They should have done it from the start. Merlin felt like he’d betrayed her, and she’d always placed so much of her trust in him. She shouldn’t have found out in such a way.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Arthur sighed. “Now, she can be with one she truly loves.”

Like a reaction, Merlin wanted to assure Arthur she loved him and no one else. He held his tongue. They both knew it wasn’t true, and it wouldn’t comfort either of them. And perhaps, selfishly, Merlin wanted to think they could put all this behind them now—that the bitterness in Arthur’s tone was guilt, not a memory of affection. All his love was Merlin’s, and they could have their happy ending in a castle far, far away. 

They couldn’t. Not yet. But that’s how their story had started, like so many fairytales did. Maybe there was hope for them yet.

“How’s the _sifting_ going?” Arthur asked, changing the subject. The previous one broached too close to emotion on an already emotional night.

Arthur had given him space for over an hour, though he clearly hadn’t wanted to. Shortly after Merlin had come back into his body after looking through the crystal, the inevitable questions about defeating Morgana started. “It’s a lot of information. I need time to sift through it,” he’d said. At the time, it seemed like an impossible task.

It still did.

His head was aching. His body felt too heavy around him. He’d never been so aware of the air on his skin. And he was exhausted.

Arthur, however, was still anxious. It must have been hard to juggle the emotions of love and duty, but Merlin didn’t mind coming in second.

“You mean, how much do I remember?”

Arthur nodded. 

Merlin blinked, trying to muster his thoughts into some kind of order. “Not much now,” he admitted, though he wasn’t sure it was completely true. It was like a door had been shut in his mind, but all the forgotten information was still locked behind it, waiting for him to find a key. 

“It’s fading. The future’s the most hazy, but that’s always the way.” 

As Arthur came closer, Merlin offered a tired smile. Arthur was searching his face like he was in awe of Merlin. “What was it like?” he asked.

Merlin hadn’t the answer. It was such a _big_ question, and Arthur didn’t even realise it. What the crystal gave him was more than knowledge; it was _essence_. That’s the only word he could think of that came close to being accurate.

He blew out his lips at the enormity of it all. He remembered how small he was in comparison to the world. It felt . . . good. He was small, so small—and destiny had chosen him for something important. And that made him feel big. 

“I saw everyone who ever lived or will live,” he began as an attempt to answer. “More than that, it was like I _was_ them. I shared all their memories. I felt their love, their hate, their anger and joy and sorrow. I thought their thoughts. I dreamt their dreams.” Everything that made a human a human—a life a life—he experienced. It was an extreme lesson in empathy. 

“I felt like a atom bomb,” he said in ways of a comparison. It fell horribly, horribly short.

“You saw inside my head?” Arthur wondered. He _would_ wonder that, because anyone would. Especially Arthur.

“Yeah, must have,” Merlin said. He fiddled his fingers around his temple to signify the jumble in his head. “Somewhere in the mix. I can’t remember anyone individually anymore. It’s kind of all blurred together. I don’t know what belongs to who; just that they’re _there_.” 

He rattled his head. He still had no idea how he was going to find the piece of information he needed—to find the future he must strive for, or the future he must prevent. It was a needle in a haystack, and he didn’t even know if the information had faded or not. It may be locked behind that door.

“But, I’ll tell you, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that bad things are always going to happen. We’ll never be able to save everyone.” He sighed. That sounded gloomier than he’d intended. What’d he’d meant to say was, _life will always go on and that’s a good thing_. But, in his defence, he’d been gloomy for quite awhile now. It was a hard habit to break. 

“But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” he amended, hoping it would get his true meaning across.

Arthur’s expression softened. The orange lights outside the window painted his features. “Careful, Merlin,” he said, his tone licked with teasing. “That sounds a lot like hope.”

Hope. Merlin remembered it well. He saw it in everyone, whether they’d lost it, or they’d gained it anew, or they held onto it by the frayed ends with broken fingers. Hope was tethered to everyone so loosely, but it was always there.

_Please, God, let her live_ , he remembered one woman praying on her knees.

_I got in!_ , a teen exclaimed upon opening his acceptance letter.

_Maybe I’ll never be good enough_ , someone thought in the small sleepless hours of the night.

_Mum is going to be so proud!_

_I’m moving there next month. I can’t wait!_

_He has your eyes! Grandpa said I’ll be in the major leagues one day! I thought we were gonna be together forever. Mummy, I drew this for you! Cancer? I think he likes you! Congratulations, you got the job. I’m gonna ask him to marry me tomorrow. What do you mean, you don’t love me anymore? I love you, too._

Hope. When had Merlin let it slip away from him? Why hadn’t he let himself feel it? See it?

_Oh_.

His eyes met Arthur’s. Arthur’s face was a prayer. He was more than a person, more than Merlin’s destiny or king. Arthur was Merlin’s resting pulse. Merlin remembered what hope felt like. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said softly. He turned fully towards Arthur and wrapped his arms around him. Arthur looked puzzled, so Merlin explained, “I’m sorry for how things happened—before. I should have trusted you.” 

Hindsight was so clear. The future was hazy. The present is always impossible to see.

Luckily, Merlin’s eyes had been opened. 

“And I’m sorry for what I’ve become.”

Arthur’s expression flashed with surprise. “Why are you saying this?”

Merlin didn’t have an answer. 

“You’ve been inside my head,” said Arthur. “You know there’s nothing to forgive. I’ve only ever seen you as the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

Merlin looked down at the space between their chests. He could never hold on to Arthur tightly enough. So Arthur encompassed Merlin, too, and closed the space between them. He tilted his forehead against Merlin’s. 

“Merlin, my soul, I’ve loved you for such a long time. I only regret I didn’t realise it before I was on my deathbed.”

Merlin closed his eyes, letting the words seep in and hang in the air. He savoured them. They’d never sounded so honest.

“You’ve made up for it,” he assured.

When he opened his eyes, a smirk was pressed to Arthur’s lips and Arthur was shaking his head in disagreement. “No. One day, maybe.” 

It warmed Merlin’s chest. 

Love or duty. Maybe he liked coming in first _sometimes_. 

“Then, I look forward to it,” he teased.

Arthur kissed him how Merlin wanted to be kissed, with the promise of the future.

 

///

 

All the windows of the renovated factory across the street were dark. They had been for hours, as everyone inside had long ago fallen asleep. The street in front of the building was empty, so desolate that it was easy to forget how populated with souls the city beyond truly was. The only reminder was a helicopter’s blade chopping in the distance. Everything else, save for the buzzing of the single streetlamp on the block, was quiet in the night.

The building itself was hard to look at. Morgana’s eyes kept trying to wander from it. She didn’t _want_ to see it, and she had to frequently remind herself that it was there at all. 

Her magic was the only thing that allowed her to fight the enchantments Emrys had placed on the building. If she hadn’t been so strong, she wouldn’t have been able to find it. It was no wonder Mordred’s spies failed to track it down.

Morgana heard someone approaching from behind her. She allowed herself a smirk before training her face and turning to the newcomer, who stepped into the pool of light cast by the streetlamp. He was the only reason she’d found the factory in the first place. She’d placed a tracking spell on him, but he did not know that. 

“Father!” she cried, feigning joy and concern. His face broke into an overjoyed smile, and she ran across the street into his opened arms. “I was so worried,” she lied. “I should have never asked you to do this.”

“Nonsense, Morgana,” Uther said tenderly into her hair, and pat her back lovingly. “You’ve done what you must. You’ve become a true leader. I am proud of you.” 

Her face hardened while she was still able to hide it against his chest. When he pulled away, she slipped back into her mask of doting daughter.

“I’m only doing what you would have done,” she told him with pushed emotion. It softened his expression. He scanned her face as though she were the most important thing in the world. 

“Arthur does not suspect, does he?” she worried.

Uther’s expression dropped into sorrow. “No, he does not,” he said. “But I fear it is as you’ve said—the sorcerer has poisoned Arthur’s mind. He is beyond saving. He fights on the side of magic.”

Morgana had to force down the anger bubbling in her, as she once had to in Camelot. Looking into Uther’s face disgusted her, even after all these years. But she had to play her part. It was the only way to gain success. 

“You cannot blame him, Father. Emrys’ magic is powerful. You see now what I’ve fought against all these years,” she said, hearing a touch of tearfulness in her own tone. “Perhaps Arthur is not passed saving. If we can find a way to break the spell—.”

“I believe he is too far gone,” Uther said heavily.

Morgana backed away, pretending to be distraught. “I fear you may be right,” she agreed, matching his tone. “Emrys has had his grip on Arthur since the days of Camelot.”

Uther looked away in memory—a twisted, implanted memory, but it was real to him. “If only I had seen sooner what was happening to him,” he lamented. “Camelot’s downfall—It is my fault.”

“Do not say that.” She surged forward and placed a comforting hand on his arm. “There is nothing you could have done. It was _Arthur_ who tricked us. He is the one that overthrew you, that locked you away. His tyranny over the kingdom was part of Emrys’ design. He was desperate for revenge for all you did to keep Camelot safe from his kind.”

Uther let out a bitter breath and said, “I remember.”

“We have one victory already,” Morgana reminded him. “We were able to steal the Cup of Life from Emrys. We destroyed the army he created with it. The few men Arthur has left will be of no consequence soon. We can stop them from conquering this world, Father.” 

“We must,” Uther emphasized. “I will not have my son go on in such a way.”

Morgana pressed her lips together. “Whatever Arthur has become, he is no longer your son,” she said as though it were a hard truth. “Not while Emrys lives.”

Uther’s eyes lit up in hope. “Then, we must destroy him.”

Excitement swelled in Morgana’s chest, but she hid it well. “It’s too dangerous! Emrys cannot be killed!” She turned away, and pretended to ponder. “Unless—Tell me, does Arthur still carry his sword? The one Emrys gave to him?”

Uther nodded vigorously, and hung on her every word. “He keeps it with him at all times.”

“You must retrieve it from him,” Morgana urged. “It is forged in powerful magic. It is the only thing that can kill Emrys.” And the only thing that could kill _her_. “You must bring it to me.”

Uther’s expression moulded into stone cold determination. “I will kill him for what he’s done to Arthur.”

_No_ , Morgana lurched in a gut-reaction, and very nearly said it aloud. She didn’t know what had come over her, but she would not see Emrys dead. She would find much better revenge for him, she told herself. The promise of his suffering was the only reason to keep him alive. Nothing more.

“Not yet,” Morgana told him, urging him to be patient. “If we kill Emrys so soon, his enchantment over Arthur may never be broken. First, we must find a way to rid him of the spell. We’ll have to extract that information from Emrys.”

“We must kidnap him,” Uther spelled out, sounding resolved. 

She nodded. “Yes. Tell me, have you seen any weaknesses in Emrys?”

“This,” Uther said, reaching into his pocket and producing a pill bottle. He handed it to Morgana, who inspected it with interest. She had no idea what it was, or how it was a weakness. “He takes them every night to sleep.” 

Morgana rattled the bottle. It was nearly full. “I see.”

“There is something else,” Uther said suddenly. “He’s using the powers of the Crystal Cave.”

No, that couldn’t have been right. Morgana pulled her brows together.

“He’s more powerful than we know. For twenty years, I searched for the source of magic, but the Cave eluded even my best men. I started to believe the birthplace of magic was only a myth. And yet, he can summon it’s magic,” Uther went on, but Morgana was hardly listening. She wasn’t interested in tales of his quest to destroy magic. 

“That’s impossible. The Crystal Cave is no more,” she interrupted, forgetting her mask momentarily. Perhaps she had been wrong. If the Cave had returned, she could find a way to harness its power. Her weapon would be unstoppable.

“There was one of its Crystals left,” Uther told her. “Emrys absorbed it. Its power passed on to him.”

Suddenly, Morgana felt as though she were falling. Her knees were weak beneath her. Emrys’ magic had been strong in Camelot, but this display was fearsome. She did not even know such an ability were possible.

She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself, but she was certain all the colour had drained from her face. How could she possibly defeat someone so powerful? She didn’t know what to do. But Morgause would. She had to. She always did.

“Stay here, Father,” Morgana told him coolly, despite all she felt inside. “I will be back momentarily.”

Uther inclined his head in a soft bow to show his understanding. Morgana fled back across the street, and pushed through the door of the abandoned storefront there. As soon as the door swung shut, she called, “Morgause! Mordred!” 

The two came out of the back room, but stuck to the shadows so Uther could not see them from the street. 

“What is it, sister?” Morgause worried, reading the panic on Morgana’s face. “What news?”

“Emrys has harnessed the power of the Crystal Cave,” Morgana blurted out without preamble. It stopped both of her companions in their tracks.

Morgause instantly appeared thoughtful, but Mordred blanched. 

“He _made_ himself a Seer?” he gasped, mirroring Morgana’s dismay. “How is that possible?”

Morgause hummed. “Not just any Seer—much more powerful. It appears Emrys’ powers have grown over the centuries.” 

Air escaped Morgana’s lungs. She could not recapture it, no matter how much she heaved. Her eyes welled, partly in anger and partly in terror. “So, there is no hope?”

A feline smile curved onto Morgause’s expression. Her eyes sparkled sharply. “Quite the opposite, sister. I believe we can use this to our advantage.”

“How?” both Morgana and Mordred asked at the same time.

“Emrys was not born a Seer. He does not know what a true vision feels like,” Morgause explained. “Not like you do, sister.”

Mordred seemed to understand her train of thought. He put into simpler terms, “You want to give him fake visions?” 

Morgause regarded him with a mildly impressed glance. “We can show him anything we want. We can make him believe he knows our plans. If we need to, we can lead Arthur and his men into a trap.”

Morgana breathed easier. Her relaxation quickly became a flood of joy. She knew Morgause wouldn’t let her down. 

And this, the promise of controlling Emrys, was better than she’d ever imagined. He’d be powerless against her if she owned his mind.

“I don’t know,” Mordred pondered. “Such magic would have to be continuous. We would need to cast an enchantment over him each day for it to work. How could we possibly slip in and out undetected so often?”

Morgana remembered the pill bottle still in her hands. She had been squeezing it like it was a lifeline in her worry, but had forgotten about it until then. “We won’t have to,” she said, and handed it to Morgause. “We can use these. Emrys takes them so he is able to sleep. Uther told me. I believe it is like the sleeping drafts Gaius used to give me.”

They, too, did more harm than good. 

Morgause looked triumphant. “These will do nicely,” she said, and lifted the bottle to be eyelevel in both palms. She summoned her magic, and uttered a curse over the bottle. When she was done, her eyes yielded into a bright gold that pierced through the shadows.

She handed it back to Morgana. “Have Uther put this back in its place. He must ensure Emrys takes one every night in order for our plans to succeed.”

Morgana nodded quickly, and hastened back onto the street where Uther was waiting. 

“Is everything alright?” he fretted upon her return.

She put on a bright smile. “Of course, Father. Do not be concerned.” She handed him the pill bottle. “Put this back where you found it. We cannot have Emrys suspect us.” 

He nodded dutifully. 

“You must go before anyone realises you’re gone,” she then said. “I wish I did not have to put you in this position.”

He reached forward and cupped her cheek, and she hoped he did not feel her freeze. Trying to recover, she forced herself to melt into the touch. He was none-the-wiser. 

“Do not worry about me,” he said. “Soon, you will be queen, and you will bring order back to this world. I will do whatever I must to make sure of that, Morgana. And if there is any way to save Arthur, I will not rest until he is himself again.”

Morgana nodded against his palm. “Be safe, Father,” she told him, and allowed him to press a kiss to her forehead. Briefly, it reminded her of her youth. They used to be so close. She used to admire him so much. She used to love him. 

She inwardly forced such longing emotions down. She had to remember his true nature. The Uther she once loved was dead, if he had ever existed at all. This man before her was not him.

She watched him slip back into the factory, and contented herself in the knowledge that, by that time tomorrow, Emrys would be hers.

 

///

 

At first, all Merlin saw were snapshots, like someone pushed the fast-forward button on the VCR. Nothing was in context, and nothing made sense. He couldn’t grasp an image long enough to understand it, until he wasn’t sure he was seeing anything at all or if his mind was just playing tricks on him. He wasn’t even sure if he was real, or if he was attached to his body. All at once, he was both there and not there, existent but not present. His senses overloaded, and yet he was floating midair.

A rowboat rocking on a gentle tide. Morgana with fire in her eyes. A winged shadow sweeping over the crest of a hill. A stone hall, light shining through the stained glass windows and painting a polished round table in a rainbow. Mordred drawing his sword against the background of a clear blue sky. Arthur pulling back the hammer of an antique shotgun and winking one eye for aim. A ballerina in black twisting on stage. The Cup of Life. 

All of them were flashes. They may have not been there at all. It was so hard to tell what was the past and what was the future. They bled together and existed at the same moment. 

Then, the images slowed. They landed on a sword swiping through the air. Another sword crossed it, blocking the blow.

“I’m sorry, Father!” Arthur called, emotion cracking his voice. 

Uther brought his sword down again, and it clinked against the metal of Arthur’s. He kept pushing forward, determined to snap Arthur’s blade like a toothpick. Arthur gritted his teeth and bent his knees to hold balance. There was sweat beading on his hairline and moisture building in his eyes. 

Finally, Arthur pushed, and Uther backpedalled.

For the first time, Merlin was conscious of his body. He was ripped backwards like he’d been thrown. A sensation akin to falling overpowered him.

He woke up.

The bedroom he was in was beginning to become familiar to wake up to. It was two floors lower than their regular flat, and decorated with a tidy, bohemian ambiance that told Merlin a young couple must have lived in there once upon a time. A framed picture of a petite brunette woman planting a kiss on a closed-eyed, grinning redheaded man’s cheek came into focus on the nightstand. The man’s arm was raised out of the frame as he held the camera to take the slanted, close-up shot. 

For a moment after he’d woken, Merlin felt like he had motion sickness. He carefully lifted Arthur’s arm slung across his stomach, sat up, and pressed his palm to his head to steady himself. And then the dream rushed back to him. 

He knew at once that it wasn’t a dream at all. It left him with a distinct feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was equal parts confusion, certainty, and a headache that made his mind feel like an overstuffed box bulging and ripping at the corners. Too much information was crammed inside.

It was the Crystals.

He looked at Arthur sleeping beside him. His features always looked so different in the darkness, like they didn’t quiet exist in shadows. They were only meant to be seen in the light.

His eyes swept to the sheathed broadsword hanging from a leather belt tied to the decorative iron bed frame. It hardly left Arthur’s side anymore.

Merlin swallowed hard and tiptoed out of bed. He quickly slipped into his discarded jeans and shirt on the floor and made for the door. He still wasn’t used to the floorboards in this flat. He didn’t know which to avoid, which creaked underfoot. He hit a few noisy boards and winced. However, Arthur’s soft breathing never changed. 

He slipped outside the flat and down the corridor. In the stairwell, Archie startled him with a low meow that sounded too loud and foreign in the absence of the sun. The cat was stretched out on an exposed, low-hanging pipe near a window. He didn’t bother to jump down and follow him as Merlin continued on.

He was much more familiar with sneaking around his own flat. He got inside without making a sound, and slipped past the furniture and the sigil painted on the floor until he was at the bedroom door. Carefully, one hand wrapped around the knob and the other on the wood, he pressed open the door and peered inside. 

Uther was asleep, seemingly innocuous. He didn’t have a sword. Wallace had never given him one. Merlin just wanted to double check. He looked around the room, and then used his magic to feel around the parts of the room he could not see. He didn’t find so much as a kitchen knife. He sighed in soft relief.

And knew at once there was no cause for relief at all.

He had been right. Uther was a threat. Merlin was willing to bet he’d been a threat from the beginning. He had no proof that Arthur would listen to, especially when it came to his father. 

He resolved to stay close. To not let Uther out of his sight until he found the evidence he needed.

Softly, the closed the door and lingered in its threshold until the sun came up.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur had barely noticed autumn’s shift. That’s because there wasn’t much of a shift at all. The summer had been chilly, but more so in the nights. Now, the days were getting shorter and it felt like night all the time—damp, quiet, dying. The cold tucked beneath his skin and wrapped around his bones.

He’d gone out to the shop to get something for dinner. Merlin had nearly panicked when Arthur told him he wished to go alone. He worried a Neo spy would kidnap Arthur off the street, which Arthur stated as ridiculous but was probably within the realm of possibility. But Arthur had been adamant, and Merlin begrudgingly complied to his wishes—but gave him the timeframe of a half an hour to return.

Normally, going to the shop wasn’t something he’d do alone—or at all. But he needed to get out of the factory, to clear his head of everyone and everything inside it. 

His father, still as weak as he had been in the months before his death. 

His men, all looking to him for their place in this new world. 

The threat of Morgana battering at the doors, moving closer every day.

A walk did nothing to help Arthur focus. He was trapped inside his thoughts from the moment he walked out the door. They followed him down the pavements, tugged at him in the shop’s aisles, and left with him on his way home. 

With the factory in sight on the other side of the block, the wind kicked up, threatening rain. Arthur’s fingers were numb around the paper bag clutched to his chest. He didn’t even fully remember what he’d bought. He’d just grabbed whatever was left on the barren shelves. It would be another week until the next rations came in—if they did at all, now that Morgana was in charge. 

He paused, and looked up at the many windows lining the brown bricks. The grey clouds reflected on the glass, and he found the one peering into Gwen’s room.

It was the closest he’d gotten to her in days.

It was always the same: No matter what room Arthur walked into, Gwen was never there.

It wasn’t because she was avoiding him. She was always too direct and courageous for such games. But rather, he was avoiding her. Like a coward. If he didn’t know what to say to her before, now he was at a complete loss. 

The truth was his best bet, but it never seemed like the right time. He should have gone to her that night Merlin used the Crystal. He shouldn’t have given her space. He knew, with every passing hour, she grew more furious with him. She had every right.

But what could he say?

He was sorry he married Merlin? He wasn’t.

He was sorry he kissed her just days ago? He wasn’t.

Which only meant he felt guilty about both at different times. 

More than anything, he wanted things to go back to the way they had once been between he and Gwen—the warmth, the comfort. There were so few people he could completely let his guard down around, and Gwen had always been at the top of his list, even before she had become more to him than his sister’s handmaiden. He didn’t need to fill the silence with empty words around her, or have to act as though he were anything than what he was. 

So many looked at him and expected a king. She only ever saw Arthur. It was the reason he fell for her in the first place, from the moment she spoke out of turn to him in Ealdor. 

But that was then, and now, he wasn’t sure if he was confusing memory for love.

When he longed for Gwen, was he desperately trying to hold on to the past? To Camelot?

The drizzle turned to a steady rain. Arthur didn’t quite notice until a drop fell between his eyes and cascaded down the straight of his nose. He shook it away and looked down at the speckles on the brown paper shopping bag. The last thing he needed was for it to grow sopping and break. 

He started across the street, just in time for a massive black monster to fly around the corner. Arthur dropped the shopping and reached to his side for a sword that wasn’t there. The SUV squealed its breaks as it jerked just inches from him.

Arthur swore loudly upon realising he knew the car, and that the food had scattered around its wheels. “Damn it, Wallace! Look what you’ve done!” 

He wasn’t sure if Wallace heard him through the closed window. He thought not once the door swung open and Wallace jumped out. “Arthur, hell, you alright?” 

“Fine.” Arthur dropped down and picked up the boxes of pasta. The corners of the cardboard were bent back, distorted, and soggy.

“Here, lemme help.” Wallace squatted and scoured the ground, but there was only one last box for him to pick up. Arthur sighed and straightened out, and finally noticed Wallace’s demeanour. He looked in a rush, antsy even.

“Something the matter, Wallace?” Arthur asked, lifting a brow.

Wallace squeezed the cardboard nervously between his hands. “Got somethin’ for you to hear. C’mon, let’s get inside. It’s freezin’ out here!” 

Wallace bound towards the door, and Arthur momentarily did nothing but watch him. A cocktail of curiosity, dread, and hope swirled inside of him. He tried not to get his hopes up. That would most likely lead only to disappointment. 

He followed after Wallace, trudging up the stairs towards the flat he and Merlin technically still lived in, but was now Uther’s. Merlin had been in there all day, doing god knows what. He was probably trying to make some kind of point about the flat being theirs and not Uther’s. Or maybe he just wanted Uther to stay locked away in the bedroom, as he always did when Merlin was present. 

In fact, Uther was about as good at avoiding Merlin as Arthur was at avoiding Gwen.

Arthur opened the door with his toe and kicked it open the rest of the way. Too late, Wallace reached around him and held it open with the flat of his palm. Arthur rolled his eyes and moved inside, passing his sword propped up at the edge of the sofa. 

He hadn’t put it there. Had Merlin? Arthur’s stomach squirmed. He didn’t like Merlin going within ten feet of the sword since his confession of his plans for it after Arthur’s death.

Merlin and Lancelot were in the kitchen, standing on opposite sides of the island counter. They were whispering in a conversation that halted the moment Arthur walked through the door. Merlin’s gaze latched onto him with something fearful lingering around its edges. Lancelot looked down. 

Arthur had a heavy feeling that they’d been talking about him.

“Wallace? What’s happened?” Merlin fretted after his eyes swept the man standing beside Arthur.

Wallace grunted. “What, like I only come over when I have bad news?” 

“Yes,” Arthur and Merlin said at the same time.

To this, Wallace placed his hands on his sides and tapped his fingers in what might have either been annoyance or acceptance. “Well, it depends on your definition of _bad news_.”

Arthur shuffled in anticipation, making the bag in his arms audibly crinkle. He wasn’t certain why he was still hugging it. It was wet and becoming laden, and the hastily thrown in contents were shifting with imbalance. But it was comforting to have something held against his chest like a barrier, a shield from whatever was about to be hurtled at him.

“What’s happened, Wallace?” Merlin asked again.

“Morgana’s army set off a bomb in the Anglican capital last night. It killed a hundred civilians and soldiers—Darby’s men. Anyone left alive was killed or is being held prisoner.” 

Arthur had no idea how that could be construed as good news. It seemed pretty cut-and-dry terrible. “If she has control of the capital, she has control of Anglia.”

“Yeah,” Wallace agreed. “And, word is, she’s set her sights on Birmingham next.”

“The Midland’s capital?” Lancelot said.

“After what happened last night, Darby got in touch with my uncle. He wants to declare war.”

Arthur blanched. The decision to go to war had never been taken lightly, but he imagined that mentality was doubled now. Or maybe it was lessened. After all, the world had already ended once. What was another war? 

Fear did terrible things, and this escalation was a testament to how quickly Morgana spread fear. 

“He’ll never win a war against the Neos,” Lancelot considered. “Their numbers are too great, and their weapon too strong.” 

It didn’t matter if Darby raised the best army in the provinces. The Neos were still better equipped. The Midlands would surely fall. Morgana would take no mercy. She would turn the Midlands into an example.

“What do you mean he _wants_ to declare war? Why doesn’t he just do it?” Merlin asked.

Arthur considered. He jumped straight to the worst-case scenario. He hadn’t actually heard what Wallace was trying to convey.

“Because he knows he won’t be able to defeat them alone,” Wallace answered.

It struck Arthur what the _good_ part might have been in this news. He realised, “He’s asked your uncle for aid.”

Wallace nodded. “PM Simmons is backing Darby’s decision, but my uncle is being cautious. He’s called a meeting with the two of them to see if there’s another option.” 

“There won’t be,” Merlin was quick to say.

Arthur agreed, despite the knots pulling at his gut. He had hoped that one day, this far from his own time, there would be no need for war anymore. But there was no use in wishing on distant stars, especially when there were still causes important enough to fight and die for. “He’s right. War with Morgana is inevitable. It’s all she knows.” 

“Yeah, well, look around,” said Wallace. “You get why we’re so hesitant to declare war these days.” 

“She already has,” Arthur assured him.

Wallace sighed at the floor in a forlorn way. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said again, sadly this time. His eyes snapped back up and he said, “My uncle wants you at the meeting.”

Merlin said something to that, but Arthur didn’t hear it. His entire world narrowed, blocking out light and sound as Wallace’s request processed fully in his mind. Hope sprung from the depths of him, pushing away all else. 

“He believes me?” Arthur was stunned.

“Oh, he still thinks you’re a lunatic,” Wallace corrected. “But yeah, I think his exact words were, ‘God help me, I do.’ Plus, you have the history with Morgana. If you know how to stop her . . .”

Arthur had no idea how to stop her. But Uther would. He’d figure it out. 

“When’s the meeting?” 

“Three days. It’ll be in Buckingham.”

Three days. They had three days to put a strategy together. 

Arthur looked at Merlin for a long time, and the gaze was returned. There was so much to plan that Arthur felt as though he were drowning, but his blood thrummed with adrenaline akin to the battlefield.

“I’ll tell my father,” Arthur said, hasting to drop the shopping on the counter.

As he spun in the direction of the bedroom, he heard Lancelot say, “And I’ll tell the others.”

Arthur didn’t pay attention to what happened next. He didn’t hear Wallace leave. As he carefully pulled open the bedroom door, he prayed the promise of retribution for all Morgana had done would raise Uther’s spirits.

 

///

 

Gloucester had a large store of fresh foods from Anglia’s southern lands. It wasn’t large enough to feed the former population of the city, but it was more than enough for Morgana and her commanding officers to enjoy. 

And enjoy it, she did. She could certainly get used to having natural food again. To think she would ever consider it a luxury.

She, Morgause, and Mordred dined that night in the common room of the city council hall. A spread of fresh meats, grains, and cheeses were laid out before them. Mordred seemed especially happy by it. He hummed around every bite and grinned at her with satisfaction as he chewed. The way his eyes lit up reminded her of the smile she once saw on him when he was a little boy. 

It was nice to see him happy again—or at all. She knew he had never truly been happy, as life had stolen so much from him from the day he was born. Soon, he would know true contentment. Soon, he wouldn’t have to be strong and brave. He would be allowed to be young.

But, until then, there was work to be done. They could not let their recent victory make them idle.

Morgana turned her attention to her sister. “Are the troops prepared to march towards Birmingham? We should leave within the next few days.”

Morgause raised a thoughtful brow. “So soon? Is it not best to secure our hold on Anglia first?”

Morgana shrugged. Anglia was easily conquered. It was merely a stepping-stone to the real battle. “A few troops will stay behind to secure the city. We should focus on the real challenge.”

“I agree,” said Mordred, his voice still thick as he swallowed down his food. He cleared his throat and continued, “We cannot allow the other provinces the time they need to organize against us.”

“Who says they will? The Midlands may challenge us, but I hear the others remain unconvinced,” said Morgause. 

Morgana did not understand how she could be so flippant. It was beginning to grate on her nerves. “Their decision could sway either way. If Darby convinces London, it’s only a matter of time until Wales follows.”

“They’ll unite if Arthur has anything to do with it,” Mordred fretted.

“Which is why it would be unwise to leave our newly acquired land unattended while there’s still work to be done here,” Morgause reasoned. “We have yet to go south to find more recruits.”

Mordred dropped his utensils for the first time since they sat down. “We’ve had volunteers coming into the city all day.” 

“And what of those unwilling to volunteer? We need their magic, too. Do not let your eagerness rule you.” 

“It’s Arthur’s eagerness that worries me,” Mordred corrected heatedly. “Why give him time to get what he needs to bring us down?” 

“Arthur has all the means he requires to bring us down,” Morgause speculated.

Morgana ground her teeth. She did not want to believe it but she knew it to be true. She could build a weapon teaming with power, but Arthur still possessed the most fearsome weapon of all. “Emrys.” 

“We should just have Uther kill him in his sleep,” Mordred said bitterly. He, more than anyone, wanted Emrys dead.

It was an advantage they had over Arthur. Arthur’s weapon had one weakness, whereas Morgana’s did not. Emrys could die. Only a rare thing could do the job, but it was not impossible.

But, for Morgana, it was unthinkable. She would not let Emrys die.

“No,” he commanded instantly, slamming her palms flat on the table. It was one syllable, but it contained enough power to make Mordred shrink into his chair. She hardly saw him. The shadows of what she’d do to Emrys if she ever got her hands on him shrouded her vision. 

“Do you really think I wish Emrys dead? After all he’s done to us? He is the reason for all our suffering! His punishment will not be so easy as death! I want him to spend the rest of eternity knowing he’s failed his king once more!” With every wrathful word, the pace of her tone quickened. Her eyes flashed in a wild frenzy. “I want him at my mercy! I want him to beg for death!” 

She snatched the piece of bread off her plate and crumbled it in her fist. “And only after he’s lost his faith in all he’s clung to for centuries, will I lock him away somewhere he can never escape! He will suffer as we have suffered—and then some! He will see what it means to turn his back on his own kind—to turn his back on _me_!”

Mordred was staring at her with a mix of fear and admiration. Both emotions battled for power in his gaze. It was enough for Morgana to remember herself. She settled, and caught her breath in a steadying way.

Only when she had calmed down did Morgause, who had not outwardly reacted to the outburst, say nonchalantly around a sip of her wine, “Perhaps.”

Both Morgana and Mordred’s glares swept towards her. How could she not understand Morgana’s need for revenge? Emrys had been the reason for Morgause’s death, after all. She should have the same thirst.

“You don’t wish to see him pay for what he’s done?” Mordred challenged. 

Morgause fixed him with a hard stare and set down her glass. “Of course, I wish it. But you do not see the bigger picture,” she told him, raising a brow as though to educate him. However, when she continued, her eyes fell to Morgana.

“The Emrys is the most powerful sorcerer ever to live. His magic overshadows that of all our legions put together, including your own, sister. Perhaps you should not be so quick to discard him, not when we can use his magic for our own gain. The Old Religion uses him as a conduit to spread through the earth. If we were to harness his powers, just _one_ of our weapons would be enough to take out all our enemies the world over.”

Morgana fell back against her chair, letting Morgause’s words flap through her mind like bats in a cavern scattered by the light. She was right. They could turn Emrys’ strength into a weakness—control it, bend it to their will. 

“He will never give his magic willingly,” Mordred half-laughed, despite his sour expression. “He would never betray his king.” 

“We do not need him to betray his king yet,” Morgause said, as though spelling it out. Morgana was grateful. She did not understand what Morgause was trying to say, either. “You forget that we possess the ability to give Emrys visions of a false future. All we must do is have him believe his king will betray _him_.” 

Mordred leaned in. “You underestimate Merlin’s devotion to Arthur.”

Morgana shuddered at the use of _that name_. Somehow, it was harder to hear, and impossible to say. Who was Emrys? Her enemy. The man who killed her. The man who robbed her of everything. The name fuelled her heart with hatred.

But who was Merlin? She had a different history with Merlin. The boy she once trusted. The boy who betrayed her. The boy who lied to her when she most needed a friend. The boy who held her in his arms as she died. The name only brought her grief. 

Somehow, _Merlin_ gave him more power than _Emrys_ ever could.

“And you underestimate our queen,” Morgause snipped back.

Morgana realised both their eyes were on her. 

“It is your choice, sister,” said Morgause. “What plan shall we set forth for Emrys?”

Morgana’s eyes flickered between the two of them. Both plans had their faults, and both were enticing. Morgause urged her in one direction, and Mordred in the other.

She had two options, but she supposed they could both be attained by the same means. Whatever the outcome, the process would devour Emrys until nothing of himself was left. She could still control him—and from there, she would decide what to do with him.

“Let us not worry about results today,” she decided—or, rather, she decided to decide later. “Let us enjoy the hunt while it lasts. It does not matter if we catch a rabbit or a wolf, so long as we have it cornered.”

Mordred seemed satisfied with the answer, but she knew he could pose an issue when they did finally have Emrys in their grasp. Morgana could not allow him to act rashly, as she so desired. Morgause would have to keep them both in check. 

Morgause lifted her glass again, and held it up in a miniature toast. “And corner him, we shall.”

 

///

 

Lancelot had already sent his fellow knights upstairs. Now, Gwen was the only person left to find. He thought he knew where she would be. She’d spent most of the time in her flat since the previous night, only coming out to prove she wasn’t hiding.

She had no reason to. None of them thought any less of her now that they knew of Merlin and Arthur’s relationship—or, at least, they knew _something_ was going on. 

“I always said they were close,” Percival had said last night.

“Yes, after _I_ convinced you,” Elyan chided, making Percival grin mischievously.

“Yeah, yeah, we all knew. Give them some privacy, eh?” Gwaine had said, shockingly the only one not to crack a joke. 

“I certainly didn’t know!” Leon defended.

Lancelot had listened to them all bicker about who knew first for a half hour before turning in for bed. Later, he heard Elyan leave to speak with Gwen, but he wasn’t sure what came of it. Elyan was a better man than him. Lancelot wanted to see Gwen, but he wasn’t sure what he’d say to her.

He was no less nervous now, as he knocked on her flat’s door and heard her beckon him to come in.

On the other side, Gwen was sitting on the edge of her bed, stitching together colourful fabric into what looked like the beginnings of a dress. It struck Lancelot how endearing it was. Gwen could never bear to have idle hands. Work comforted her. She always had been bursting with such driven energy.

“Lancelot,” she said, seeming surprised, and perhaps a little let down. She had been expecting Arthur. She had probably been expecting him for hours now.

“Something’s happened with Morgana,” Lancelot said quickly, and it sounded a lot more awkward than he would have liked. 

Gwen dropped what she was doing and looked alert. “What’s she done?” 

“We’ll explain upstairs. Come on. Everyone’s already gathered in Merlin and Arthur’s flat.”

As he turned to leave, some of the anxiety fell from him. The encounter had gone a lot better than he’d expected. However, he quickly realised she wasn’t following him, and his nerves returned worse than before.

Had he said something wrong?

Cautiously, he looked over his shoulder. She had gone pale.

“Gwen?” 

“I was waiting for someone to tell me they shared the flat,” she told him, and she almost sounded grateful. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped forward. “That kiss . . . It wasn’t their first?” 

Lancelot gulped. She already knew the answer to the question, and it wasn’t his place to confirm it. 

She sighed in disappointment, and shook her head. “Please, just tell me, Lancelot. It hurts enough that Arthur’s lied to me. I’d hope for more from you.” 

He’d hope for more from himself. He didn’t want to betray Merlin’s trust. He’d made a promise to his friend, and breaking that would dishonour him. But lying to the woman he loved—keeping the truth from her when she so vulnerably asked for it—was something he could no longer do.

She was trusting him with her heart. He had wished for that trust for so long, but now he wasn’t certain how to handle it.

Delicately, he admitted, “They have been together for a long while now. Since before any of us came back.” 

Gwen nodded and looked away. She thinned her lips in a tight line and appeared to be on the verge of tears she would never let flow. “Why didn’t they tell me?” 

“They did not wish to hurt you,” he explained softly. Surely, she would understand. Both Arthur and Merlin were in a difficult position. He did not envy either of them. Surely, Gwen would sympathize with that struggle.

However, her expression skewed into anger. She knitted her brows together, and her lips parted. “They didn’t want to hurt me?” she said slowly, like the words were foreign.

At once, Lancelot knew he wasn’t helping.

“So they lied to me?”

“Gwen.”

She marched towards him—no, towards the door. There was power in her every move. She shoved past him and left the flat.

“Gwen, wait! Let me explain!”

She didn’t wait.

“Gwen!" 

He tore after her, though he knew he couldn’t stop her.

 

///

 

The liquid inside the pot on the stovetop gurgled and hissed. Gwaine looked at it with a wildly excited expression, like how a puppy might look at a marrowbone. He, Percival, Leon, and Elyan had all gathered in the flat, awaiting orders—or, mostly, waiting for Arthur and Uther to emerge from the bedroom.

Gaius was there, too, standing and Merlin’s side and muttering about ingredients as his fingers traced the printed lines of a book.

“What are you making? A potion? Will it help us stop Morgana?” Gwaine asked in rapid-fire procession, getting ahead of himself with each question.

Merlin curled his nose as he tore back the top of the brightly coloured cardboard box between his hands. “It’s pasta,” he said, pouring the noodles into the boiling water. “I’m making dinner.”

Gwaine’s shoulders fell. Merlin hated to disappoint. 

Suddenly, footsteps pounded from down the hall. He heard them even though the door was closed. 

“Gwen, wait!” they heard from the corridor. Merlin’s eyes flew to the door. It burst open seconds later. Gwen came through, looking as though she were on a warpath. Lancelot scampered behind her as timid and unsure as a sheep.

Gwen looked around the room. She must have just realised everyone was present, because she faltered slightly. It took a moment to compose herself, but Merlin saw it happen—the transformation into a queen. Her posture strengthened and her shoulders broadened, every movement became elegant, and every line on her face suggested she meant business.

Merlin had seen the look before. Fear struck him, as it had done to all the noblemen of Camelot or visiting dignitaries who were ever on the receiving end of that look.

And now _he_ was on that end.

Everyone’s attention was drawn to the two of them. Politely, they tried to look away and appear as small as possible, but it was no use. They couldn’t divert their attention, as if they knew what was coming. Merlin was certain he’d heard them all stop breathing. Lancelot eyes, already apologising, were as wide as a doe’s. 

What the hell had he said to her?

“Where is Arthur?” Gwen asked. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a demand that Merlin fabricate Arthur out of thin air.

Merlin steadied himself. “In with his father,” he said, nodding over her shoulder with his chin. “I could get him for—.” 

“You love him, don’t you?” Gwen asked quite suddenly.

Merlin’s heart skipped. He fully took in her expression, noticing details of it that he hadn’t before. It was heartfelt and delicate, but somehow still strong. She waited for a stretch of silence until it was clear he wasn’t going to answer. They were both so familiar with that dance. She would always give him more than enough time to respond, as a friend and as an advisor in her court. He never liked lying to her, causing him to so often not speak at all. 

She could always read his silence as though he were shouting his thoughts.

Gaius lifted his chin and remained still, but it didn’t matter. He knew Merlin was the only one Gwen saw at the moment. He’d been right, when he told Merlin they should have admitted their relationship to Gwen at the beginning. Now, Merlin felt as though there were no hope of escape.

This was it . . . 

Why did he feel so guilty, like he and Arthur were only having an affair and Gwen finally found them out? 

Gwen folded her hands in front of her and paced closer to him. “And he loves you?”

Merlin saw movement in the doorway behind her. His eyes flickered to it. Arthur was standing there frozen in place even though Gwen could not see him. Uther was standing over his shoulder. 

Perhaps the Gwen Arthur remembered would have never made such a spectacle in public, but that was not Gwen at her full regal potential. Merlin had seen her tell off men twice her age and size hundreds of times at council meetings. She would demand respect from them, and ensure everyone present knew exactly who they were dealing with—not a fragile widow, but a queen.

Every time Merlin had seen it, he swelled with pride for her. It was different now that he was the focal point of her fury and pragmatism. How small he felt, smaller than ever before. 

“Please, Merlin, just answer me honestly,” she told him, setting his gaze back on her. There was more emotion on her face now. She was almost pleading with him for the truth. Gwen always wore her heart on her sleeve; somehow, it made her stronger. 

He nodded slowly. “I love him,” he said, like he was proclaiming it to Arthur instead of her or anyone else listening. It wasn’t a proclamation at all. Everyone present already knew. How could they not? 

Gwen gave a heavy breath and looked to the floor. She didn’t look surprised when she brought her eyes back up.

Arthur’s lips were parted, but he was holding his breath. Merlin wasn’t sure if his soft gaze was on him or on Gwen’s back.

“And he loves you?” Gwen asked, needing to know.

Merlin clamped his jaw. How could he tell her? She was more deserving of Arthur. She was his queen, his wife. Destiny had brought them, still fresh as the day they married, back into this new world, while Merlin had decayed on the inside. The years had made ashes build up in his stomach until he could taste them in his mouth. He thought maybe Arthur could taste them, too, every time they kissed.

Love was fire, bright and hot and wild; it was not the smoke that rose from the burnt out coals.

“I love him.”

Gwen tore her gaze from Merlin and whipped around. Arthur had walked fully into the room. He moved to stand between Merlin and Gwen so that he could look at her directly and still have Merlin in his peripherals. Merlin wondered how many times he’d done that in Camelot. 

Gwen scoffed again. It wasn’t an angry sound, nor was it of hate or betrayal. There was a sadness about her, and Merlin wondered if he was only imagining the relief in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” Arthur told her, every line on his face soft and genuine. “I should have told you.” 

“Yes, you should have,” she said firmly, her tone hurt. Merlin couldn’t say if she was hurt because they lied, or hurt because they were together. “I’m your wife, Arthur.”

And then, Arthur said something Merlin hadn’t expected him to confess in fifteen hundred years: “He’s my husband.”

It was something Gwen hadn’t expected, either. She looked from Arthur to Merlin, her eyes lingering on his as though asking if it were true. Merlin couldn’t stand to hold her gaze for too long. He hated himself for being ashamed. He _wasn’t_ ashamed of being Arthur’s husband. He would have proclaimed it on Gwen’s first day back in the world. Whatever Merlin was to Arthur—his servant, his friend, his lover, his husband—it was the best thing Merlin ever was. He was proud to be Arthur’s. 

When Gwen spoke again, she _did_ sound betrayed. More than that, disgusted. “How could you do such a thing to either of us?” 

Merlin felt sick rising up in his throat. She hated him. Gwen hated him. 

“Honestly, Arthur, what were you thinking?” she continued. “You owe both Merlin and I an explanation!”

Merlin’s gaze snapped up, no longer scolded. She didn’t hate him. She was angry— _for_ him, not at him. 

Arthur gaped, his jaw moving infinitesimally with thoughts he could not fathom. “Guinevere—.”

“Don’t _Guinevere_ me. You should be ashamed of lying to me, and to Merlin!” 

Merlin didn’t think that last bit was strictly fair. After all, Arthur never lied to him about his feelings for Gwen. He felt the need to come to Arthur’s aid; it was a reflexive action. “Gwen, you don’t understand. He still loves you.” 

She scoffed, her scalding glare returning to Arthur, and then cooling pityingly as it found Merlin. “You don’t have to suffer for him, Merlin, not on my account. You know I would never want that for you, and yet you put me in this position. We promised always to be honest with each other. Perhaps you have forgotten that, but I haven’t.”

Merlin hung his head, once more scolded. Why was it so hard to look at her?

Arthur must have thought so, too, but he was braver. He held her eyes as her gaze locked again with his. “It’s not his fault, Guinevere. I’m to blame.”

For whatever reason, his son admitting fault was the final straw for Uther. He could not longer stay silent. “I’ve heard enough. This is madness,” he fumed. He surged forward, marching across the room for Arthur. “Arthur, this will end now. I will not allow this sorcerer to posses your mind—.” 

As he moved, he passed through the sigil Merlin had painted onto the floor weeks ago to ensure Lancelot was his true self. The colour of the paint lit up in a glittering gold, and Uther’s face flashed into the image of a shadowed skull, with hollowed eyes and the visage of the damned.

Uther’s hand reached for Arthur, but Merlin was quicker. He pushed the air with both palms and sent Uther flying across the room. He hit the wall with a thud and slid to the floor.

Finally, Arthur’s eyes tore away from Gwen. “Father!” he shouted, instantly making for Uther. “Merlin, what the hell is wrong with—?” 

“Don’t!” Merlin grabbed the back of Arthur’s shirt to keep him from going to Uther. 

Arthur struggled. “Let me go!”

Uther was rousing. He sat up and shook the stars from his vision. 

“That’s not your father!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther seethed in a low growl.

Arthur glared at his men. “Don’t just stand there. Help him to his feet!”

No one moved. Merlin looked around, and noticed each of their postures were squared in defence. Their hands flexed over the hilts of their swords, but none of them drew their weapon. None of them knew what to do. They looked at Arthur as though they were begging for instruction, but the corners of their eyes stayed warily on Uther. 

Then, Merlin looked to Gaius. Instantly, he knew, “You saw it, too?”

Gaius thinned his lips and nodded.

“Saw _what_?” Arthur demanded. He managed to release himself from Merlin’s grip, but didn’t go to Uther. Instead, he rounded on Merlin. “You’d better have a good explanation for this!”

Merlin opened his mouth to give his very good explanation, but Uther getting to his feet and glowering with murder in his eyes distracted him.

“Arthur, I’m afraid that isn’t your father,” Gaius explained. Before Arthur could argue, he went on, “It is a Shade.”

Merlin saw the exact moment the words hit Arthur. His eyes flashed in horror, but only briefly. Then, they hardened in denial. 

“The creature Morgana turned me into?” Lancelot asked, stepping forward. Immediately, he pulled out his sword.

“Put that away!” Arthur demanded harshly. “He’s not a—He’s not a _creature_! Don’t be ridiculous!” He turned around again to face Uther, and suddenly his certainty slipped. Merlin heard it in his voice as he asked, “Father?”

Slowly, Arthur paced a few steps closer to Uther.

“Arthur, careful,” Gwen warned just as Merlin took in a breath to do the same.

“Guinevere, don’t tell me you believe this nonsense, too.”

“Don’t listen to them, Arthur,” Uther snapped, but his eyes were still on Merlin. “The sorcerer is trying to turn you against me.”

Merlin formed fists at his sides, clenching his fingers tightly around his magic as though it were a dog on a lead eager to chase a fox. It would slip from him if he weren’t careful—and he had to be. For Arthur’s sake.

“You’re yourself?” Arthur asked desperately.

“Of _course_ , I am!” Uther huffed.

Arthur looked over his shoulder at Merlin, begging him to change his mind. Merlin met his eyes resolutely, and a little guiltily. He’d prayed for Uther’s presence to be a trick, but know he wished he’d been wrong. He’d watched Arthur lose his father once. 

But this was not his father.

“Then, prove it. Walk through the circle,” Merlin told him.

Uther seemed appalled. “I will not! Who are you to give me orders?”

“Father,” Arthur said again, his voice choked and wavering. He took another tentative step closer. “Walk through it.” 

Uther’s glare swept to his son. It was hot and intense and always did more to pierce a hole through Arthur than any blade or arrow. He had no shield against it. It had found Arthur many times, and every time it kept Arthur awake at night, pacing his floors or training in the yard while the rest of Camelot slept in hopes that he could be better—that he could one day please his father.

The look made Arthur falter now, but he managed to say, “I know you’re not what they say.” Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur truly believed that. “So, please, just show them so we can move past this.” 

Uther seemed to consider something. His eyes flashed briefly to Merlin and then back before he said, “If I do this, you will see the sorcerer has told you nothing but lies? You must dispose of him as I’ve taught you to do with his kind.”

Merlin felt Gaius’ hand wrap around his arm. Gaius had anticipated Merlin’s anger, a flash of white intensity at the words. Merlin would have surged forward and killed the Shade himself in that moment, but Gaius’ touch reminded him that he couldn’t. Arthur had to see this for himself. It would hurt him, but he had to know the truth. That Uther, or anyone else, could not save Albion. It was Arthur’s destiny, and his alone. 

Arthur froze for a long time, like a corpse stolen by rigor mortis. Merlin thought he’d never move again, never decide between Uther and Merlin. Slowly, Arthur looked over his shoulder and met Merlin’s eyes. He was choosing what to believe, who to trust.

Merlin silently pleaded for Arthur to choose him, just this once—he’d never have to again, if only he did this time.

Arthur swallowed hard and steeled himself. He turned back to Uther.

“I promise,” he decided. 

Gwen called his name in astonishment. She couldn’t believe her own ears. But Merlin was fine with Arthur gambling with his life, because it meant Arthur had chosen to trust him.

Uther nodded, and Arthur held his breath. Merlin prepared himself for the chaos to come. 

Again, Uther stepped through the circle, and revealed the true face of the demon inside. It was fitting for a man like him, in a way it hadn’t been for Lancelot—all those handsome features turned to hell. Uther’s face had looked like that for a long time for Merlin, but Arthur had never been able to see it.

Now, he did.

He jumped back and lunged for his sword against the sofa. He drew it. “Hold him!” he shouted in a gut reaction, his muscle memory taking over as he forced Gwen behind him and prepared for battle. 

Percival and Leon rushed to either side of Uther, now out of sigil, and restrained him between them. Lancelot held the point of his sword just inches from Uther’s chest. Behind him, Gwaine and Elyan had drawn their weapons, too, and looked ready to use them. 

“Get off of me! I command you!” he roared, as if they ever bowed to him, as if he were ever truly their king. “Damn it, you will release me this instant!”

“Sire, what should we do?” Leon inquired, his voice fluctuating as he struggled to hold Uther. 

Arthur was just as uncertain. Unlike his men, he wasn’t the slightest bit prepared to use his sword, despite it being held level towards Uther. “How do we fix him?” Arthur demanded without turning around to face Gaius or Merlin.

“Fix him?” Merlin echoed, speechless. “We can’t!”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t accept that.” 

Merlin let out a breath that was halfway to a scoff. “Would you just listen to me? That isn’t Uther!” 

“I hoped you could be saved,” Uther said, his voice almost as low as a whisper, and all else died away. “I was wrong. I should have known you were beyond it when you seized Camelot.”

Arthur was taken aback, but Merlin thought he knew what was happening.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked Uther. 

“You,” Uther growled, and then lifted his chin and Merlin, “and him—and his immortal army that allowed you to overthrow me.”

A memory flashed to the front of Merlin’s mind, but it was nothing the way Uther had described it.

Arthur shook his head. “No, Father,” he began to desperately explain, “that was _Morgana_.” 

Uther scoffed. “More lies. Morgana has dedicated her life to ridding the world of all you created.”

“Why is he saying this?” Arthur threw over his shoulder.

“It must be Morgana’s doing, sire,” said Gaius with urgency in his tone. “The one who summoned the Shade can impose memories upon it. The ones she gave him must have been false." 

She wanted to turn Uther against Arthur. She knew it would destroy Arthur when he found out. From the looks of it, she’d been right.

“No,” Arthur denied. “Why would she do that? If she controlled him, why would she get him to hate magic?”

“It’s a trap for you! She had to make sure you’d believe it was really him,” said Merlin, praying it would get through Arthur’s thick head.

“Morgana will be a more fitting ruler than you ever were,” Uther said, regarding his son as if he were an enemy—as if he weren’t his son as all. “To think, you were my true heir, and not her. I am ashamed of you. Your mother’s sacrifice was in vain.”

Arthur let out a sound like he’d just been punched, a breath of air let out for a blow he’d been anticipating all his life.

Merlin wanted so badly to remind Arthur that it wasn’t his father talking, but the words never made it passed his lips. He wondered if, in that moment, it truly was Uther, after all. 

When Arthur spoke again, his tone was thick, “Gaius, is there nothing we can do?”

Gaius paused as though he were considering, when in truth he was deciding the gentlest way to let Arthur down. There was no gentle way for it.

“I’m afraid not. The creature inside merely inhabits your father’s body, sire. There is nothing of him in there.”

“What do we do with him?” Gwen asked, trying to be as delicate as Gaius had in the situation. “We cannot send him back to Morgana. There’s no telling what he’s already told her. We cannot risk her knowing more.” 

“We can’t just lock him up!” Arthur protested, and Merlin had to agree. Perhaps Arthur was more emotional in his reasoning, but the logical facts remained—they hadn’t the time or manpower to keep Uther their prisoner. It would take effort they had to focus elsewhere. 

There was only one option, and they all knew it. 

Tentatively, Merlin inched forward. “Arthur,” he said softly.

“Shut up, Merlin!” Arthur barked suddenly, already knowing what Merlin was going to say. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes red rimmed but hard. Soon, they softened into sadness, imploring Merlin to fix this as though it were his fault. “You wanted this,” Arthur accused in whisper.

Merlin’s mind blanked. He couldn’t protest, but he wanted to. Arthur’s words had strung. How could he think such a thing, when Merlin had always tried so hard to keep Arthur from pain?

But he _had_ wanted it, he realised, in some way. Hadn’t he? Maybe not this exactly, but he’d searched for a reason not to trust Uther. At last, he had it. 

Arthur appeared to reach a decision. He faced forward again, straightened his shoulders, and ordered, “Lancelot, give me your sword.”

Lancelot quickly made eye contact with Merlin, as though asking for permission. 

“Lancelot!”

He handed the sword to Arthur, who then looked to Percival and Leon and said, “Release him.”

Merlin’s gut lurched. He didn’t like where this was going.

Percival and Leon shared a wary glance, but did as they were told. Once they were out of the way, and Uther was upright again, Arthur threw Lancelot’s sword to the Shades’ feet. It clamoured against the hardwood.

“Pick it up.” 

“Arthur!” Merlin warned. It was his dream—the prophecy. It was about to happen.

Arthur pointedly ignored him. He levelled his sword again to his father. “Pick it up.” He tried so hard to act cold—the bite in his tone, the strain in his muscles, the battle cry in every line of his posture. He was breaking beneath it all. 

“Arthur, is this wise?” Gwen tried to reason with him.

“I won’t cut down an unarmed man,” Arthur snipped back.

Uther kept his eyes locked with Arthur as he bent down and picked up the sword.

“Sire, I must advise against this,” Gaius attempted. “You still see him as your father, but he is an agent of Morgana’s. You do not have the advantage.” 

“If he kills me, so be it!” Arthur twirled his sword in his wrist as Uther prepared himself for battle. They were so alike, the way they stood, the way they moved. Uther had taught Arthur how to fight; he’d stopped when Arthur’s skilled surpassed his own. But Arthur would hold back. He would hardly even try to win. 

Arthur and Uther circled each other, walking one foot crossed over the other as they faced their opponent. Both swords were held at the ready. When Merlin saw Arthur’s face, it was carved like stone, but he would have given anything not to do this. Uther’s expression was frigid through and through. 

“I am sorry it’s come to this, Arthur,” Uther said, but he didn’t sound sorry at all. “But I will not allow this to go on. You have strayed so far from what I’ve taught you. You’ve betrayed me, betrayed yourself. You’ve let magic consume you.”

“Morgana’s filled your head with lies, Father. _She_ betrayed us,” Arthur tried. “You must remember. I’m your son.”

“Not anymore. I have only a daughter.” Uther leapt forward, and Arthur held up his sword to block the blow.

“Merlin,” he heard Gaius say, but he shushed him. He couldn’t focus on anything but Arthur—anything but Uther, every step, every swing, every clash of metal. His eyes followed every and all movement. His magic was like a sixth sense, allowing him to be hyperaware of what was before him. It was ready to bounce off his skin before he’d consciously commanded it. 

When Arthur and Uther separated, both were panting softly from exertion. A soft shimmer of sweat pooled around Arthur’s hairline. 

“You’ve destroyed the Pendragon name, just as you did to the kingdom. It should have never been in your hands. I knew it from when you were a child. You were never fit to be king. Your only use was as a soldier.”

The thought of that had haunted Arthur throughout his reign. Now that it was said aloud, the cut would never heal.

“Everything I did was to protect Camelot and her people,” Arthur said, but it sounded like an apology. With every syllable, his tough demeanour slipped more and more, revealing what was hiding beneath. 

Angered by his words, Uther raised his blade again. Arthur did nothing to retaliate. He simply blocked the blows only to defend himself.

“And now it’s laid to waste!” Uther blamed, shouting over the clanking of their swords. As he did so, they passed through the sigil again, and Uther’s face briefly flashed until they were on the other side. “You did nothing for my kingdom. You acted only for yourself!” 

Uther swung his blade down, pushing it against Arthur’s like he had in Merlin’s vision. Arthur gritted his teeth against the strain of it. He leaned back, trying to hold balance. All of him was shaking. Merlin flexed his fist in preparation.

But then Arthur seemed to find a bit of strength. He pushed, and Uther backpedalled.

Arthur jumped backwards, his heavy breaths sounding more like sobs now. “I’m sorry, Father!” 

“It isn’t good enough!”

This time, when Arthur tried to keep Uther’s weapon from coming down, he lost his balance. His sword flew from his hand as he toppled to the floor. Merlin started, fully present in the moment and ready to act, as Uther swooped down and grabbed Arthur’s sword. He let Lancelot’s fall the hardwood.

However, instead of aiming for Arthur, Uther whipped around and fixed his rage on Merlin. “You took my son from me!” he cried, and rushed towards Merlin, the tip of Arthur’s sword level with Merlin’s gut.

Merlin froze. He’d been so ready to kill Uther in Arthur’s name, but this was different. Would Arthur hate him if Merlin killed him? He hadn’t considered this possibility. 

It happened so quickly, Merlin hardly processed what happened. When the blade was mere inches from him, Uther let out a pained cry and halted in his tracks. It wasn’t until Merlin’s wide eyes looked down did he see the blade sticking out of Uther’s gut. 

Merlin saw the life leave the Shade.

The tip of the sword was pulled away, and the body crashed downward in a heap. Arthur’s sword clanged as it hit the floor.

Merlin looked up, over the body, to Arthur, with Lancelot’s red stained sword gripped in his hands. The world narrowed down to the very sight of him—to the resolve in the quaking muscles of his jaw, and the tears in his eyes. He kept his gaze on Merlin, not moving even to blink. 

Who was he seeing? His husband, the man he’d just saved? Or was he seeing the man who’d gotten him to kill his father? Is that all he’d ever see when he looked at Merlin from that day on? 

Merlin did not let out a breath of relief, but his lungs were emptied of air. 

Arthur had made his decision between Merlin and his father. Merlin hoped Arthur wouldn’t resent him for it later.


	12. Chapter 12

The night Uther Pendragon had died had been a bright one. The citizens of Camelot had stood vigil in the courtyard, holding candles to guide the spirit of their king into the afterlife. Gwen always wondered if the thousands of fires that burned signaled Uther’s descent, rather than his rise.

She never said that aloud. She didn’t want to hurt Arthur. 

She wondered now where Uther’s soul was kept, if it was anywhere at all. There wasn’t much she remembered after her death. She thought she saw snippets—her mother, her father, Elyan. Lancelot. And a light so white, it was blue. But she didn’t know if that was imagined, a half-remembered dream borne of hope for something more after this life.

Gwen prayed the visions had been true, even if she could not remember them fully. She’d been happy, she thought. She couldn’t be sure.

Sometimes, she was certain she hadn’t been anything at all—any _where_ at all. She’d resolved not to ponder. The afterlife didn’t matter. Life did.

And Uther Pendragon’s had ended long ago. His body remained. Wallace had returned to help Merlin and Arthur take it away to be burned at the morgue.

That had been hours ago, and the night around Gwen now was again a bright one. She sat in the glow of the lamp in her bedroom, staring down at her hands. She hated waiting, having nothing to do to pass the time. But she found she could not focus. Her mind always drifted back to Arthur’s face after he’d killed the Shade. 

After he’d killed his father. 

Arthur looked more pained than he had the first time Uther died. The first time, he had blamed himself; this time, he was certain he was responsible. Both times, he was wrong. 

Gwen imagined Arthur standing in front of the pyre—or whatever they used these days—watching as his father’s body turned to ash. She hoped Merlin could offer him some comfort. She hoped Merlin would take Arthur’s hand in his and stood beside him until the fire dwindled into nothing. 

She was still furious at Arthur for keeping secrets from her, but she knew now that her presence beside him wouldn’t have eased Arthur’s disquiet. Merlin had always been the one to stand vigil with him, even when Arthur did not know it. Merlin had always been the one that made Arthur feel not so alone.

Merlin was always the reason the night had any brightness at all. 

Gwen was grateful Arthur had him. She knew what it felt like to mourn without comfort. More than that, she knew what it meant to mourn over the loss of her own light.

There was a knock at the door—gentle, barely there. 

At once, Gwen realised her cheeks were damp. She sniffled and swatted the tears away. Not many had fallen, just enough to help her feel better.

“Come in,” she called, her voice still thick. She cleared her throat as the door opened.

Gwen looked over to find Lancelot framed in the threshold. He offered his sad, kind-hearted smile, always seeming as though he were giving his condolences. Now, she supposed, he was. 

However, she found herself smiling back. Though it was low-wattage, and sad in her own way, it was still there.

She was happy he had come. And a little guilty, too. After Merlin and Arthur confessed their marriage to her, her first thought had been an angered one, betrayed by their lack of faith in her. Her second thought had been about Lancelot.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting next to her, but not close enough to touch. Still, she felt his presence in the humming inch of space between them. Though, she had always felt his presence, every day until the day she breathed her last.

She took in a deep, rattling breath and found it gave her clarity. “Yes,” she answered genuinely. “I had my suspicions of what was going on between them. Lately, they’ve been—,” she considered her next words, and found they didn’t quite ring true. She breathed out something like a laugh. “Well, they’ve been exactly the same as they always had been.” 

Lancelot looked at his lap. He did not say anything, nor did he nod, but she knew he agreed. He’d seen it, too, the way Merlin and Arthur had always been with each other: as if the whole world existed for them alone. 

“You should not think Arthur doesn’t care for you,” Lancelot told her in ways of comfort.

She didn’t need telling. In his own way, Arthur was trying to spare her feelings, trying to protect her. Defence was always Arthur’s way of showing he cared.

Passionately, she agreed, “Oh, I know he does. Just as I will not deny my love for him, but that does not mean we are right for one another anymore.”

So much had happened to both of them since the days of their marriage. Their union ended the day Arthur fell in battle, and their separate lives began the day Gwen took the throne of Camelot. They were different. The world around them was different now, too. There was no reason to be chained to the past.

She would always care for Arthur, with all her heart, but they both deserved a chance to start anew. 

Perhaps this was for the best.

“I am happy for them,” she said. She looked to Lancelot, though he was still looking away. She dared to add, “And for myself, I am relieved.” 

His eyes snapped up, meeting hers with barely veiling hopefulness. “Relieved?” he echoed, perplexed but not daring to overstep his bounds.

 _He should have no bounds_ , Gwen thought. She’d built such a wall between them, out of fear for her own feelings and respect to Arthur. Perhaps it was time to tear the wall down.

She placed her hand over his between them, and gently squeezed it. “Yes.”

His smile was not as sad anymore. His eyes flickered as they held her gaze.

The night was a bright one.

 

///

 

Arthur held a small cardboard box between his hands. It was wholly unimpressive—plain and white and square. It was sealed up tight so none of the contents within could spill out.

Arthur hadn’t let it go since the moment it was placed in his hands. He never even lifted a finger from it. He thought, maybe, if he were delicate enough with it, if he kept it safe, his father would come back.

His father did not come back. He remained in the box, nothing by grey ash. 

No one would remember Uther Pendragon. No one had even been in the morgue as the furnace was fired up. It was all done in secret, a secret between Arthur, Merlin, and the flames. 

And Uther didn’t come back. Arthur had killed him. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t his father but it was no use. It looked like him, it sounded like him, it said everything Uther would have said. 

And now, Arthur felt too small, nothing more than a boy set out into the world on his own for the first time. It was the same way he’d felt when he first became king. The loneliness was suffocating. Maybe he’d learned how to handle that in Camelot, but how could he now? This was not Camelot. He had no hope of leading this new world. It was too big. He was too small.

The world needed a giant. It needed Uther.

Arthur thought, maybe if he could go back to Camelot, he would be able to figure it out. His home would ground him, remind him of who he was. Perhaps he’d never been a worthy king to Camelot, but the kingdom gave him the strength to at least try. If he could feel some of that courage now, if he could go home, maybe he’d feel like a giant, too. 

The entire way back to the factory, Arthur’s emotions turned. His mind was blank, too tired to think, but his heart swayed and tugged in all directions. He didn’t know what he was feeling—pain, guilt, anger.

Pain that Uther was gone, and that all hope was gone with him. 

Guilt that Arthur had been the one to take away that hope.

Anger. Anger at Morgana. She had done this. She had killed their father, too. She was just as much at fault as Arthur was. She had no love, no loyalty, no compassion. Uther had taken her in, raised her, given her a life and a home—and she had ensured his death. And then she would not let him rest. She turned him into a creature, something he despised, and forced Arthur’s hand in killing him.

He’d fallen for her trap. He only had himself to blame for not seeing it coming.

He couldn’t hate Morgana for it, not when he already hated himself. Anger towards her would serve no purpose. It would only lead to revenge. He did not want revenge, like she did. He was not her. He wanted peace.

Once again, Morgana was the barrier between Arthur and his goals. She was the wide-open sea, the dead desert, the tallest mountain. And the only choice he had was to swim, to walk, to climb. 

He was tired of fighting her; but if she wanted a fight, she would have it.

When he got to the factory, he finally let go of Uther’s ashes. He placed them on the bookshelf, next to Merlin’s journals and artefacts, where he knew they’d be safe for the time being. The entire bookshelf was a shrine to the past, to a world that had ended before any bombs went off. It was time to bury it.

He called everyone into the flat, where they gathered around sofas and chairs. None of them spoke. They watched him and waited. Wherever he moved, their eyes followed. 

Beneath him, his legs protested, begging for him to rest. He remained standing. Rest would be a fleeting thing from now on. He called upon all his bravado, and stole away his grief. 

The past needed to be buried. It was nothing but ash. He had to believe the fire had not yet spread to the future.

“I see now that Morgana has already started her war,” he began, clocking each face before him. “Not on the provinces. She doesn’t see them as a threat. Her war is on us, and if we allow ourselves to remain idle any longer, she will be victorious. All we fought for, all we died for, in Camelot will be for naught.” 

In front of him, Gwen fixed her posture. He saw a few nods of assent. The rest just listened.

“It’s time for us to stop hiding. I mean to take the fight to her, to end this once and for all. I do not know what kind of world lies on the other side of this battle, but I do know what Morgana intends. And I will fight until my last to make sure she doesn’t succeed." 

His gaze met Merlin’s and he continued, “I don’t know why we’ve been brought back to this fight. It is one that should have ended long ago. But I ask you: will you follow me now, as you did in the last life?” 

He had no right to ask it. Their pain should have been gone ages ago. They should have been resting, their struggle over. 

But there is what should be and what is, and Arthur could only focus on the latter. 

“In this life, sire,” said Leon, “and in any life to come.” 

Arthur lifted his chin. The words spread a welcomed warmth through him. 

Elyan caught his eye and nodded. “Sire.”

“Sire,” said Percival.

Gwaine nodded. Lancelot bowed his head.

“Sire,” said Gaius.

Gwen offered him the smallest of smiles. “Always.” 

Arthur’s eyes flickered to the door, where Wallace stood. He’d already done so much, and Arthur was grateful. “Wallace, I understand if you wish to walk away. What you’ve done for us will not be forgotten, but this is not your fight.” 

Wallace gave a sardonic kind of smile, the kind that looked more like a mournful grimace. “I already had one home destroyed. I’m not lettin’ it happen to another one.” 

That was his decision, and it was good enough for Arthur.

Finally, his gaze locked back on Merlin’s.

“You already know the answer,” said Merlin like it was every promise ever made. A smile tugged at the corner of Arthur’s lips, but he quickly stowed it away. Still, he felt braver for Merlin’s answer. It relieved him, even though he knew it could never be anything else.

He looked again at the band before them. So, they weren’t an army, but they’d fought many foes together. It was a start; and, to Arthur, this group was an end. 

“Then, I think we should talk about finding somewhere else to strategize,” Gwen advised. “We certainly can’t stay here, not now that Morgana knows how to find us.”

Arthur couldn’t agree more. They needed somewhere safe, and somewhere they could go to raise an army. Arthur thought maybe one of the other provinces would harbour them, but he didn’t want to put their lands and people at risk. A time would soon come when Morgana would burn cities to the ground to get to Arthur, and he wanted to put as few civilians as he could in the middle of them.

They needed somewhere neutral, somewhere they could control, and somewhere Morgana wouldn’t dare step foot in.

Arthur knew what they needed. They needed to go home.

 _He_ needed to go home.

Making up his mind, he said resolutely, “We go to Winchester.”

A momentary silence fell over the room as the words sank in. Wallace was the only one who didn’t feel the weight carried with them, so he spoke first. “Hang on, _Winchester_? You’re kidding, right?” He looked to Merlin with an incredulous expression. “He’s kidding?”

Merlin offered nothing. Arthur squared his shoulders to show he was, in fact, very much not kidding.

Wallace gaped. “Okay, uh—Little problem there. Winchester’s full of un-killable monsters that’ll eat you in one bite.” 

Arthur remembered very well. “Yes, but they’re creatures of magic.” He turned to Merlin, too. “Surely, you have a way of controlling them.”

“ _Me_?” Merlin scoffed, his eyes bulging. “Why’s it always have to be _me_?”

Arthur almost bit out a response, but Gaius diffused the situation by stepping forward, his hands folded before him. “Arthur, these creatures have wills of their own. They were made from the Old Religion. Merlin can no more control them as they can control him.”

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes and say, _I’d like to see anything control Merlin_. He managed to refrain. Instead, he dismissed Gaius’ words with a wave. “Well, there must be something he can do.” 

Elyan offered, “Merlin’s said the creatures collected in Camelot because of the ley lines from Avalon. Can’t we use the lines to move them elsewhere?”

Gwaine chirped up in solidarity, “Ey, that could work. All we’d need is a shepherd.”

“Or live bait,” Percival corrected.

“I have to agree with Percival,” Gwen said. “We’ve all confronted these beasts before. They won’t go peacefully.”

“And there’s no way we could kill them all, is there, Gaius?” That had been Gwaine again.

For a moment, Gaius looked appalled at the very idea of killing them, but he said evenly, “I doubt we have the resources to take on so many.” 

“Yeah, unless you’ve got a nuke hidden somewhere in here,” Wallace grunted, clearly finding this discussion a waste of time. 

“I don’t think killing them is the answer. What if we can use them?” Lancelot said, though he didn’t offer any method of doing this. “They can provide us with protection from Morgana’s army.”

Arthur raised a speculative brow. “You’re suggesting these creatures fight for us?” It would be a bit like forming an alliance with a pack of lions. They were wild animals that, as Gaius pointed out, can’t be controlled. All they wanted to do was eat their prey, and, in Arthur’s experience, human beings were the ones they hunted. 

“Or fight _with_ us,” Lancelot suggested.

Arthur shook his head. “We can’t hope to tame them in such a way. They’re too hostile. They’re—.”

“The enemy?” Merlin piped up. It wasn’t until then that Arthur realised he’d been very silent. He looked at Merlin, whose eyes were wounded and guarded and scalding. Arthur immediately felt guilty because, yes, _enemy_ was the word he would have chosen.

Everything magic was the enemy, and always had been. That’s what Uther had taught him. That’s what he was trying to unlearn now that he knew the truth about Merlin.

But he didn’t have time for sympathy, only for strategy. He tightened his jaw, hoping Merlin would have some insight into a plan. “Then, what do you suggest we do?” 

Merlin held his gaze tensely for a few seconds, but then dropped his eyes to consider the question. “I don’t know,” he answered finally. “But there could be someone who does. Someone like them.”

“A creature of magic?” Gaius asked, raising a brow. He seemed to understand what Merlin was talking about, because he looked very wary. It frayed Arthur’s nerves. “Merlin. You know he’s dead.”

Merlin let out a long exhale. “Yeah, physically. But I can bring him here.”

Arthur’s stomach churned. He thought he had an idea of what Merlin was talking about, but not who specifically. Merlin had told Arthur of his other abilities, the ones no one else possessed. Arthur remembered that night at Camlann—he remembered the old sorcerer on the mountaintop, and how he commanded Morgana’s dragon with a few booming words.

Arthur never wanted to see a dragon again. The destruction they wreaked was absolute; but if Merlin could control them, Arthur had to have faith in his abilities. If it would help them rid the world of the other magical beings, they had to give it a shot. 

“So, what are you waiting for?” Arthur ordered.

Merlin nodded and stood up.

“Wait, what’s he gonna do?” Wallace asked with concern.

“Something I haven’t done for thousands of years,” Merlin answered. “I’m going to summon a dragon.” 

Arthur tensed. He was completely oblivious to what everyone else’s reactions were. He was focused on Merlin, who stalked to the shadows in the middle of the room. Arthur narrowed his eyes. Surely, Merlin was going to leave the building first? There was no chance of a dragon fitting inside their living room.

But his thoughts were abruptly halted when Merlin spoke again. It was in a voice not quite his own. It was deeper and raspier, and was something like a low roar. It didn’t sound like something Merlin should have been capable of. It was too big for his body. 

It was in a language Arthur did not recognise at all, but the words flowed from Merlin’s lips like they were natural to him. Arthur wondered if Merlin actually knew what the words meant.

Merlin’s tone built in power, and he was staring up at the ceiling as though he expected something to crash through it, until finally the incantation ended. And there was only silence. 

Arthur blinked. He waited. Nothing happened.

“Well, that was . . .” he began, not really knowing how to finish that sentence. He was a little floored by such a great reminder of the power Merlin held, all of which seemed to have manifested in Merlin’s voice. It was somewhat intimidating. But, at the same time, Arthur had to admit he was a little turned on—but now was not the time for that. 

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence before hearing a voice behind him say, “I was wondering when you’d call for me, Merlin.”

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin. Everyone did. A figure had appeared between Gwaine and Leon. Gwaine had jumped out of the way in shock. Leon had drawn his sword and looked ready to use it at Arthur’s command.

Arthur surveyed the man before him. Again, the voice hadn’t matched the body. It was reminiscent of an antiquated, creaky door. It sounded weary, and heavy with knowledge and secret. And while the body was old, too, it wasn’t anywhere near as old as the voice. Arthur doubted anything was.

Once the shock of that died away, Arthur recognised that something else was very wrong with this picture. “He doesn’t look like any dragon I’ve ever seen.” Only the eyes gave him away. Arthur was certain he’d seen those eyes before.

“Ha!” the Dragon bellowed. “I have chosen this form for your convenience, Arthur. It brings me no pleasure wearing such small skin.”

Arthur balked. Suddenly, he felt very unsteady. “You—you know my name?”

“I know much about you, Arthur Pendragon, even things that are yet unknown to you.”

Yes, _unsteady_ was definitely what Arthur was feeling. And confused. “What does that mean?”

“Something cryptic. He’s allergic to straight answers,” Merlin droned. Arthur whipped around again to face him. Somehow, the Dragon had appeared at Merlin’s side. Merlin did not seem thrown by it.

“What is it you require of me?” the Dragon asked him.

“A straight answer.” Merlin gestured to the rest of the group, and apparently decided to exchange pleasantries. “Everyone, this is Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah—well, you already know who everyone is.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Yes, we’ve—we’ve met, actually,” Lancelot said, excitedly and a little awkwardly. It earned him a few looks that made him fumble slightly and clear his throat into his fist to correct himself. Arthur noticed Gwen staring at Lancelot like he was the only unique and singular thing in the room, not the Dragon. He quickly turned back to Merlin and Kilgharrah. 

“Indeed,” Kilgharrah said again, slower this time.

“We need a way of getting into Winchester,” Merlin said, not wasting anymore time. “It’s overrun with creatures of magic.”

“Yes, I know. I have seen them. More come from Avalon’s gates every day.”

Arthur forced confidence into his voice. It helped that he was speaking to what looked like a man, not a giant fire-breathing reptile. As long as those glowing eyes didn’t swoop towards him, Arthur would be decidedly unintimidated. “How do we stop them?” 

However, those eyes _did_ find Arthur. They bore right through him. “Stop them?” Kilgharrah repeated. “You mean destroy them?”

The idea sounded a bit more like genocide when stated so plainly, but Arthur had to think of his people’s safety. “If we must.” 

“There is no need,” said Kilgharrah. “Now that magic has returned to the land, its creatures are stronger than you can imagine; even stronger than they were in the days of Camelot. As the Old Religion gains in power, so do they. You must not see enemies where there are none, or else you will make them.”

Arthur blinked. He let the words circle around his head a few times, but he still couldn’t decipher them. His eyes flashed to Merlin for help, and then to Gaius. 

“He means for us to use them,” Gaius supplied. He sounded sure, so Arthur ran with it. 

“How?” he asked Kilgharrah.

“They have been sent to Winchester for a reason,” Kilgharrah said. “To harness their powers is to have an unstoppable force.”

Arthur withered. He hated that Lancelot had been right.

“A magical army,” Gwen caught on. Arthur looked over his shoulder at her. She was sitting with perfect posture, her chin high and her hands folded on her lap. She looked like she was at a war council meeting. Arthur supposed, in a way, she was. They all were. 

“What do you mean by _sent_? Who sent them?” she then asked.

“Forces stronger than you or I,” said Kilgharrah, and Arthur wanted to stop him before he brought up the D-word. 

“So, Merlin can control them as he can control dragons?” Arthur interpreted, feeling a little smug that his original suggestion rang true. 

His pride was snubbed when Kilgharrah said, “He cannot. He must first show them he is their kin.” He looked at Merlin. “For this, you will need one of their like to accompany you.”

Merlin nodded, understanding. “A dragon.”

“Yes,” Kilgharrah confirmed. “Dragons were the lords of the ancient beings. The creatures will follow its lead. Whosoever has the trust of a dragon commands all beasts of the Old Religion.”

“Then you’ll come with us?” Arthur asked. “You’re a dragon. You can show them we mean no harm.”

Kilgharrah laughed again, a single syllable. “I have been dead for centuries! They would not accept me.”

Arthur tried not to feel slighted.

“So, easy, we need another dragon,” Gwaine spoke up like the solution was simple. “Merlin says the magic words and, next thing you know, we’re riding griffins like horses.” 

“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, Gwaine,” said Gaius, and Arthur deflated. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. It never was, so why start now? “Dragons have been gone from this world for thousands of years. None exist.”

“I am the last of my kind,” said Kilgharrah, sounding older and lonelier than he had before. “There were once many, but now, not even Avalon can bring dragons back into this world.” 

Arthur huffed, forgetting to be empathetic. He couldn’t mourn for the long dead. He had to think of those now living. “Great, so we have no way of winning the trust of these creatures.” As hope drained from him, anger grew.

They had nowhere to go, nowhere to start anew. Winchester was the only option. It was home. It was his home! If he were to defeat Morgana, it would be there, amongst the land he knew like the back of his hand and maps and lines he had etched into his heart.

“I have a dragon,” said Merlin in rapid fire. His words had been so quick that Arthur thought he might have imagined them. But all eyes had snapped to Merlin, even Kilgharrah’s. At last, there seemed to be something the Dragon did not know.

“You _what_?” Arthur demanded.

Merlin pinched his face into a culpable expression. He looked up from his shoes to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I have a dragon,” he confessed again.

“Merlin . . .” Kilgharrah breathed, seeming astounded.

“It’s here. In the factory,” Merlin went on. 

Arthur shook his head. There was no way Merlin was telling the truth. Arthur was pretty certain he’d notice something like that living in the same flat. “Where have you been keeping a _dragon_?”

“It’s an egg,” Merlin clarified. He sounded agitated, and his posture was rigid and tight. “I found it in Ethiopia in the eighties. I never hatched it.” 

“Why did you not tell me of this?” Kilgharrah asked, sounding wounded.

“Well, you haven’t exactly been around,” Merlin answered, but he knew it was no excuse. He crossed his arms over his chest and suddenly became very fascinated with the floor. “Besides, there wasn’t enough magic in the world. I didn’t know if the creature was still alive, or if it would be able to survive if I did hatch it. Or if it would with—.” 

He stopped himself. A full stop, like he regretted what he was about to say. Arthur creased his brow. He’d seen Merlin with that haunted look in his eyes before, but this was different. This went beyond regret. It was something deep-seeded. Some wound that never healed.

“Merlin?” Gaius asked softly. He crossed the room to Merlin and put his hand on his shoulder in support. “What is it, my boy?”

Merlin shuddered a little at the familiar endearment. “I didn’t know if it would survive with me as a guardian,” he admitted. He turned his eyes to Kilgharrah. “After last time . . . After what happened . . . What right do I have?”

“You are a dragon lord,” Kilgharrah reminded him. “Yours is the only right.”

Merlin looked away like he didn’t believe it, or like he didn’t want that burden.

Arthur didn’t know what had happened before. He didn’t understand why Merlin was so hesitant, but that was a conversation for later. Now, they needed a dragon. 

Before Arthur got the chance to say anything, Gwen appeared at his side. “Merlin,” she said, her voice cooing and gentle. She passed Arthur and strode right in front of Merlin. “You must hatch the egg,” she told him, fishing for his eyes. “Think of all the good it will bring. With such creatures on our side, we will have a major advantage over Morgana.”

“And we’ll get to go home,” Arthur added. “Back to Camelot.”

“It’s not Camelot anymore,” Merlin snipped, and Arthur tried to be patient. 

“The land is the same,” he said surely, and Merlin knew how much that meant to him. “It will always be Camelot.”

“And you won’t be alone this time,” said Gwen, shaking her head. “We will all help you care for the dragon.”

Next to them, Kilgharrah spoke. His voice was now wistful and dreamlike. “ _Please_ , Merlin,” he begged. “You alone can bring my kind back into this world.”

Merlin closed his eyes for a long time. Something was blocking Arthur’s throat as he watched Merlin. His chest felt constricted and pained. He did not like seeing Merlin so vulnerable.

But, as last, Merlin nodded. “I’ll get it,” he whispered. It relieved Arthur only slightly.

 

///

 

When he’d first moved into the factory, Merlin hid the dragon’s eggs in a cupboard in a flat on the top floor. It was in the corner, collecting dust amongst abandoned bed linens and women’s shoes that would never be worn again.

Archie suddenly appeared at Merlin’s feet and purred. He watched in curiosity as Merlin crouched down and pushed away some of the clutter to get to the egg. It was smaller than Aithusa’s had been, but not by much. When Merlin gently picked it up, he still had to use both hands to support it. He instantly remembered how delicate the egg was—just a thin layered shell prone to cracking. And yet it had survived thousands of years and many miles. The thing inside was enduring, and Merlin prayed it was still alive.

He thought perhaps it might be, because the shell was still as warm as it had been the day he’d found it. The stark emerald colour had not faded in the slightest. 

For a split second, a voice in Merlin’s head told him to smash the egg and run. It was better that way. The creature inside would never have to live in such a cold, hapless world, only to die of neglect because Merlin was too focused on other things. Because Gwen had meant well, but she was wrong. The others could only be there for support, not to raise and tame the dragon. That responsibility was Merlin’s alone, and his track record so far had been pathetic.

He thought of Aithusa, and all that happened to her. The memory still made his heart ache. He wondered, before her end, if she ever forgave him. He probably didn’t deserve forgiveness.

He stood up, the egg still in his hands. He would not destroy it or run away. Arthur needed both of them, so Merlin would have to be strong.

 _I’ll do better this time_ , he promised himself, but his stomach was still a bundle of tight knots. Archie trotted after him out the door.

When he returned to the flat, everyone had congregated around the coffee table. Kilgharrah was still there, standing away from the crowd in the shadows that kept him visible. Merlin carefully placed the rounded bottom of the egg on the table. Around him, there were a few soft gasps and whispers.

Archie jumped up at the table and sniffed the egg in a cursory examination.

“ _That_ ’s a dragon’s egg?” Wallace asked, and Merlin could never tell if he was being sceptical or if he was just unimpressed.

Merlin knelt down next to the table to be level with the egg. He couldn’t look away from it. “Yes. It’s at least a millennia old.”

He really did hope the dragonling inside was still alive.

“When will it hatch?” Gwen wondered. She reached out a finger and stroked the soft shell, gentle and unafraid.

“After I give it a name,” Merlin told her. Gwen retracted her hand, like she expected Merlin to do so immediately. She sat patiently. 

Arthur settled on his knees at Merlin’s other side, watching the egg warily from over Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin glanced at him, watching the uncertainty play on Arthur’s face. He was trying very hard to be accepting, but it must have been difficult for him. Once, Arthur thought he’d slain a dragon. Now, he was ordering one to be born. It went against everything that his father had engrained in him as a child.

He visibly readied himself, and gave Merlin one curt nod.

Merlin’s heart leapt. It was now or never. He took in a deep, steadying breath and focused on the egg. He closed his eyes, letting his magic flow through him.

A single word popped into his mind. A name. Like last time, he didn’t know what it meant. He hadn’t chosen it. It chose itself, and he liked the sound of it. He spoke it. 

“ _Dagnija_.”

Tentatively, his eyes fluttered open. Seemingly out of nowhere, a jagged line cracked the egg. Merlin let out a tripping breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. The dragon was alive.

More cracks broke the surface, and shards of the shell fell away. It spooked Archie, making him hiss before flittering away to the protection of Gwen’s lap. 

Soft chirping sounds came from inside the egg. Everyone leaned closer to get a better look at the hatching creature. But then the egg shattered completely, and the dragon emerged in the centre.

It looked nothing like Aithusa had upon her birth, but Merlin saw her anyway. The small creature before him uncurled to reveal itself. Its body was long, with a tail behind it that spiralled around it and thinned into a point at the end. The body almost looked like that of a python, but with four legs and wings.

The dragon landed on all fours and shook out like a wet dog. As it did so, the frilled skin of her neck fanned out, and remained after the movement concluded. The appearance of it made Merlin jump slightly in surprise. The dragon’s wings expanded. It had two sets: one arched above its back and the other, made of translucent skin, was straight and level with the rest of its body. 

Her colour was blood red and, when it caught the light, shimmered in a deep gold. The scales around the talons and the sail fins on its tail were gold, too. The neck frill was bordered in the same intense amber. Around the mouth, small but sharp ivory tusks protruded, like those of an elephant. Between the eyes was a diamond-shaped gem of the same emerald as the egg. 

Dagnija cooed and blinked its beady black eyes up at Merlin. Merlin realised his cheeks were damp. He’d cried when Aithusa had hatched, too, but for a different reason. Then, he had been amazed and overjoyed. He’d had such hope for the days ahead. Now, he was arrested with fear. It was bone-deep and paralyzing. He was so sure he’d fail again.

“This is an Ethiopian Dragon,” Kilgharrah announced, breaking Merlin’s thoughts, “the Great Serpent of Africa, the rarest of all dragons.”

Gaius stepped closer to study Dagnija with fascination. “I have read of such creatures. They were said to live the most peacefully amongst humans, never killing a human but in self-defence. The ancient tribes would seek the dragons’ aid in caring for their people and fending off enemy attacks.” He pointed out the precious stone on the dragon’s forehead and explained, “This stone is known as a Dracontrias. It is believed to be the source of the creature’s magical abilities.” 

Dagnija sneezed, making puffs of grey smoke unfurl from her nostrils and reveal a long, thin tongue amongst fragile baby fangs. 

Archie had jumped onto the table again. He hesitantly approached Dagnija, all guards up. Dagnija chirped happily. Archie swatted a paw at her, which only delighted the dragon further judging by the sounds it was making. The cat, however, was still suspicious. 

“She’s beautiful,” Gwen swooned with reverence and awe. So did Merlin. Within him raged a mixture of opposing emotions so great he thought his heart might burst. He instantly loved the dragon.

 _I’ll do better this time_ , he silently promised himself, and Dagnija, with furious determination. A smile found its way onto his face.

“I once told you there is meaning behind the birth of every dragon,” Kilgharrah reminded Merlin. “The name you have chosen means _new day_. It marks a new beginning for the world you and Arthur are destined to build.”

Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, who was trying very hard not to beam with joy. His eyes were wide and sparkling with happiness as he gazed at the dragon. His lips were pressed together in a strained but affectionate grin. When he caught Merlin’s eyes, he clasped Merlin on the shoulder and gave it a firm shake of a job well done. 

At once, all of Merlin’s other emotions fizzled away, leaving only pride.

Something near the window caught Merlin’s gaze. He looked up to find Balinor, silently beaming. Merlin blinked, and he was gone.

“There is hope yet for Albion,” Kilgharrah’s voice echoed. However, when Merlin returned his focus onto the shadowed corner, Kilgharrah had already vanished.

He looked to Dagnija, who was stretching sleepily into a yawn. Archie seemed to have warmed up to the dragon, because he was making rumbling sounds as he brushed up against Dagnija’s scales.

 

///

 

This wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a premonition, either. Morgana had only experienced this once before, after Morgause had sacrificed herself. 

There was darkness, pitch black. She wasn’t certain which way was up. It consumed everything, light and noise alike. If Morgana tried to scream, the blackness would have swallowed the sound whole. She sucked in a rattling breath, but what came into her lungs did not feel like air. It was too brittle, to sharp. It felt like ice-cold water in the deep depths of the sea.

Suddenly, a crack of lightning streaked through the dark. No thunder accompanied it. Where it touched down, the blackness began to swarm and brew like the eye of a hurricane. More bolts of electricity silently fizzled within it.

A figure appeared before the swarm. Her complexion was as white as death, and her robes as black as her surroundings. Her shadowed eyes were downcast in a grief too large for any one person to carry, but the sadness was not her own. It belonged to all the lost souls she had seen wander through the veil as they left the world and their lives behind.

“You!” Morgana stumbled, taking in more of the cold. Somehow, the temperature had dropped in the Cailleach’s presence.

“Morgana Pendragon,” the Cailleach proclaimed solemnly, her voice seeming to come from all directions. Morgana froze. The last time she met this being, Morgana had summoned her. Then, she knew the Cailleach meant her no harm. This time, however, she feared she was being called back into the spirit realm.

She would not go! It was not her time! She had not fulfilled her purpose! She would not be banished back into the darkness; she would not allow Arthur to steal what was rightfully hers!

“Do not fear. I have not come for you,” the Cailleach told her, as though reading her mind.

It did not calm Morgana any. “Then why are you here?” she managed to say past her bone-deep terror.

“The circle of fate has been broken. The path of destiny is in flux,” the Cailleach warned, though her expression remained neutral. Her grip on her staff remained lax. Nothing about her seemed urgent, but Morgana knew it was a warning. No, more than that—it was a promise.

“I don’t understand,” Morgana told her. 

“Events that were never meant to occur have come to pass,” was the answer. “They have changed the course of destiny. The future is no longer clear. It is uncertain whether the Once and Future King will succeed or fail in his goal.” 

Suddenly, Morgana felt her heart kick back into life. The Cailleach was not there to harm her; she had come to help her. She would give Morgana the information she needed to take the throne. Soon, nothing would stand in her way, not even the one who had barred her success for so long.

“How can I defeat Emrys?”

“I have told you, the path in unclear,” said the Cailleach. “One thing is certain: Emrys is still your destiny. It is now undetermined whether or not he shall be your doom. The pendulum may swing in either direction.”

Morgana did not know what to think. It made no sense. Emrys was no longer her certain doom, but their paths still lied together? She remembered what Morgause had said—a scheme to turn Emrys from Arthur and bring him to their side. It seemed so far-fetched, so impossible. Now, however, the task did not seem so daunting.

Perhaps there was a chance.

Emrys’ powers could be hers. She could make him join her.

“What must I do?” she asked, determined and resolute. 

There was a pause, and then the Cailleach said, “Not all events are in flux. There is still one fated to unfold. Should it come to pass, it will send events into motion that ensure you will never gain the throne, Morgana Pendragon.” 

“What?” Morgana panicked. She would make sure it never came to pass. She didn’t care how many had to fall for it. She could already taste their blood on her lips.

The voice was all encompassing again, and the darkness was setting in once more.

“Beware the Twice Crowned Man. For king he was once, and king he shall be again.”

The lightning cracked again, and the Cailleach was gone.

Morgana jolted awake. She was twisted in her bed sheets, sweat-matted and cold. She drank in deep bouts of hair, grateful for its relative warmth. Her skin and bones were still numb with chill.

Once her breath caught up to her and stayed her heart, she thought over what the Cailleach had said. She knew what she had to do. She had to stop Arthur from become king, no matter the cost. She could battle armies and wipe out cities to achieve that end, but it wouldn’t matter: There was only one threat, only one person who had the power to ensure Arthur was crowned again. 

Morgana needed that power. She needed to use it for her own gain.

She needed him on her side. 

She gritted her teeth, her veins crackling with hatred and scorn—but also with stone-cold resolve. She would not fail.

As though to seal their fate, she named him. The sound sliced through the air life a knife, but she would dull it soon enough. 

“Emrys.”

* * *

 _ **Book II: The Twice Crowned Man**_ is out now.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone!!! And a huge thanks to the very talented [Lyns](http://mushroomtale-fanart.tumblr.com/) for her awesome, beautiful art contribution! Also, a world of appreciation to my favorite cheerleader, [Kit](http://ofkingsandlionhearts.tumblr.com/) (it was a discussion with her that sparked the idea for this trilogy, even though neither of us knew it at the time). I would die for both of you, and I think that's fair to say at this point.
> 
> Check back soon for Book II. And the soundtracks will be posted at a TBD date (aka, when I get my goddamn act together).
> 
> Come say hi to me [on tumblr](http://colinmorgasms.tumblr.com/), too!


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